


A Pin's Drop

by TreesWhisperTruthsAndLies



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Injury Recovery, Kidnapping, M/M, Near Death, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, PTSD, Rape Recovery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-19 13:29:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 98,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15510909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TreesWhisperTruthsAndLies/pseuds/TreesWhisperTruthsAndLies
Summary: An AU when Harry Flynn hesitates in dropping the grenade.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Legit my first fanfic so be nice? Published on fanfiction.com previously.

The metal of the grenade was like a ball of ice in his quivering hand but he dared not drop it. Not yet, anyway. He supposed it would be easier to drop it now and get it over with, go out with a literal fantastic bang. It would be quick, certainly quicker than letting his life’s blood pump out of his chest with each panicked flutter of his heart. He used to last of his waning strength to walk out of his hiding place to meet them, the three that dogged their forces’ heels all the way to the Tree Of Life and the great stone of Shambhala itself. Harry Flynn could not help but smile, a force of habit if anything at this rate, it was his neutral smug expression. There was no smugness now. As he looked upon the three he was currently bleeding for, they could see his expression was of resignation and sadness. Grief. Flynn had to admit, he had not wanted to die here. To see Shambhala was an explorer’s, adventurer’s and treasure-hunter’s wet-dream but he had no intention of it being his gravesite when he first signed on. He thought up until Zoran Lazarevic put a bullet in his chest that he was going to slip out of it worse for wear but alive to tell the story. The adrenaline before had run its course, the shock numbing the possibly mortal injury now ebbing and pain beginning to throb in tune with his pulse. He could taste blood, but whether it was the beating beforehand or the actual shooting that caused it, he could not be sure. He was vaguely aware how heavy his arm was getting. Simply holding the explosive above his head to show his unwilling audience was exhausting. Blood loss was weakening him, as his legs giving out against the pillar had shown moments before. He had been swift enough to avoid being bludgeoned by a Guardian on the way up the temple stairs but other than the elbow to the face by Chloe Fraser on their escape from custody on entering Shambhala, he was untouched. Out of breath and legs burning with the flying stride he was forced to take up all those damn stairs, maybe a bit sweaty. Upon first reaching the Cintimani Chamber, Harry was too deeply enamored by the gigantic electric blue sapphire of resin and its stunning beauty to hear heavy boots descend on him… Zoran’s shadow fell over vision before he could move away, retreat with self-preservation. He remembered a fist like iron colliding with his jaw hard enough for supernovas to rupture across his sight. The next punch knocked him unconscious… for how long? Flynn did not know. But he dragged himself back into the world of the living, jerked from the daze at the unquestionable click of the safety being taken off a side-arm. He had just the time to instinctively flinch away from the blast, taking his heart from the direct path of the bullet. It did not immediately kill him, to the war-criminal’s amusement. Harry Flynn was left to writhe on the floor for an undetermined amount of time, all the while the Serbian commander pacing around him with cruel delight. Next thing he knew, a grenade was thrust into his hand as he lay on the floor in a wounded heap. Make yourself useful, Lazarevic growled down at him. Kill them when they come. Those were the last words the madman said to him, or Flynn hoped they were the last. To see that asshole again would be too damn soon. He took pride in his handsome features normally, flirting regardless of the target’s gender on a casual basis. It was clear by the three’s reaction, Flynn knew he looked like shit. To see their stunned faces, their hushed words of… what, pity? It sent a deep lurch of shame down into his abdomen. He didn’t want them to see him like this… But what was worse than dying alone? Bleeding out in the chamber, he considered dropping the grenade when he was by himself, Zoran and his army already carrying on to the Tree or held back with battling the waves of Guardians defending their home. But, Christ, would it be messy… The dread of having his body blown to pieces and pink mist was chilling to face on his own. To be whole, alive one moment and be left in unrecognizable and identity-less gore the next. Would they stop to pay their respects? Would they even know it’s him? Would his own ex-fiancée and former best friend be able to determine what happened? To see them distraught to find him battered and bleeding but alive and whole was one choice he preferred over the other possible outcome. Harry did not know what to call the impulse, but he wanted his last moments to be observed by somebody. But could he do it? Could he kill his former allies in a final act of selfishness? Suicide was a given. He hardly had the choice, he was already dead. Harry Flynn grimaced to himself as he suppressed a violent shiver. He was already so fucking cold. He hated how freezing Nepal was before but being shot and bleeding out chilled him to the bone. His fingers were numb around the grenade, he had to clench his hand tight to remember it was still there. A blonde woman he did not know personally stepped forward, she had promised to help him if he would allow it. I’m already dead, Flynn wanted to say, forget me, dove. How could these same people want to help him after all this? He wondered why he could have found himself in such a position, what series of actions had begun his act of betrayal. He was told life flashes before one’s eyes as they were near death. In a way, Flynn could say it was true. Staring at the three people there to witness his unfortunate passing brought it all racing back.  
He did not know the blonde reporter personally by name, just that his boss was aware of her tracking their activities due to his past war crimes. The first time he realized she was a factor at all was when Zoran’s scouting group captured them shortly after finding the temple in Shangri-La. Lazarevic executed the wounded American in front of them all, another body to add to the foundations of this wild goose chase-turned-massacre. Harry wished then she left this hunt for good. But here she was. Chloe Frazer, the sultry-voiced, dark-haired goddess that stole his heart along with his wallet when they first met. He knew then they were two birds of a feather. They scored all sorts of jobs together over the years before this latest one. Right before they took on the job to steal an oil lamp from an Istanbul museum for Zoran Lazarevic, he had proposed. They were drunk. She never gave him a solid ‘yes’, but not a straight ‘no’. He simply assumed she needed time. And he loved her. So damn fiercely, even though she did not return those feelings as he inevitably found out. Nathan Drake. Flynn never had family to speak of, but he once thought Drake as a brother. A clumsier dorky little brother, someone he loved to tease and joke and laugh with. They had history before this, one that he believed would weather the turbulence of this current job. That proved untrue. They were betraying each other from the beginning. His trust in both Nathan and Chloe proved to be disposable for their own means. That night, after meeting Drake in the lobby with Chloe to discuss the details of their plans, Flynn overheard it all after heading to their bedrooms. Those hotel walls were tragically thin, as he could attest to. His beloved fiancée had snuck into the room of his best friend and conspired to score the treasure and bail. Without him. He would not have believed it if he had not heard it all, word for word. He understood Chloe’s actions, she was a wild card that he could never really turn his back on without worrying about his valuables. But Nate? The goody-goody Nathan Drake? Harry had to admit to himself that indiscretion hurt more than his love interest did. He grappled with a tsunami of emotions that night, jealousy and grief mixed with equal parts of rage. He thought of confronting them there that night, storming into the room. But that was never his style. He had to continue as scheduled until he found a way to ditch Drake. It went swimmingly at the museum. Nathan never suspected a thing until he pulled the rope up behind him, abandoning Drake to the security to discover. What was a few months in a Turkish prison? Or so he believed. Things just went downhill from there. They got as far as Borneo before Harry Flynn was hopelessly over his head. Finding any clues to Marco Polo’s lost crew dragged on for three agonizing and terrifying months without any progress but finding rotting ship remains and useless trinkets. No matter the prize at the end of the trail, if he knew what kind of psychopath Zoran Lazarevic was, he would have gotten the fuck out of there faster than a bat out of hell. Zoran may not have been certifiably insane as Chloe whispered to him once, he knew exactly what he was doing. And that was the scariest part. Harry loved history, he just devoured books on conquests, empires, wars, imperials, and even war-lords and dictators. He never imagined he see one face-to-face, let alone be working for one in intimately frightening circumstances. The man was intimidating enough with his gargantuan build and loyalty-or-die rhetoric, but the burn scars from the assassination attempt that overlapped his features and marred the side of his head added to the monster that would no doubt haunt Harry’s nightmares. The man’s eyes betrayed no kindness, no humanity, no pity. Not even while executing his own men for minor infractions. The first execution he witnessed still gave him nightmares. He never seen a man die violently like that in front of him before. It was not like the movies. It was the first of many experiences he wished he could forget. Flynn knew a thing or two about hell, he’s been acquainted with it in the past. But Borneo was an emerald green, deceptively beautiful hell. He had never seen trees so massive in his life, taller than skyscrapers and roots thick as sewer pipes twisting simple paths into labyrinths. The wildlife that was not frightened away by their presence was fascinating, vividly coloured parrots and curious monkeys. Cascading rivers and roaring waterfalls criss-crossing their trek. The beauty had its vicious side. It was just so bloody hot and humid. Dehydration was a constant risk. One misstep into a swamp could drown a man by pulling him into thick inescapable mud. They lay down wooden walkways and base camps to stop it becoming an issue. If the mosquitos and flies were not terrible enough, there were also toxic spiders and tarantulas and fuckin’ snakes. Harry absolutely loathed snakes. He would try to keep his cool around his boss, the men, and Chloe… But snakes were something he’d rather stay the hell away from. As if the environment were not a struggle enough, Lazarevic breathing down the back of his neck the entire way with threats hanging over his head made it a waking nightmare. Chloe had not been witness to all the actions he done to terrorize his new employee. Harry wondered if that was intentional on Zoran’s end, but the man gave no hints in his actions or motives. Just to instill ever-loving fear in him. He would try to smooth things out, to try and flatten out wrinkles in their plans, to buy more time. But each extension cost him. Zoran was sure to leave no marks that would be seen, or often resorting to the psychological sort of trauma. After watching Zoran ruthlessly slaughter one of his own, slitting the man’s throat for an attempt of AWOL, he was ordered to Zoran’s private tent. The vision still fresh in his mind, the dying gurgles still ringing in his ears, Zoran ordered Flynn to his knees… and stuck a loaded pistol in his mouth. Flynn shoved the memory down, forcing himself back to his current agonizing reality. The front of his brown leather jacket was saturated in blood, stemming from the small entrance wound at his breast. In the clammy chill of the chamber, he was beginning to strain to breathe. Each inhale sent icy needles through his lungs, but he felt his chest was under pressure. Flynn was no medical expert, but he knew it was blood and air depressing his chest cavity. His vision was greying at the edges, colour leeching from the world. Shit. He was already so damn tired. His cot in his tent felt a million miles away but he would have wanted it there now more than anything. Talking hurt, his face felt like it was smashed to a bloody pulp and he did not have to reach up and touch it to know it was bad. How many times did Zoran hit him after he blacked out? Enough to get his jollies off, Flynn thought with a mirthless smile. Harry tried to stay on the war-lord’s good side, try and appease him as much as he could when things looked close to boiling over. It rarely worked, or from what Flynn could gather because the man’s brooding rages never altered, only redirecting itself onto another target. He tried to keep those tantrums off Chloe, and for the most part she only saw his threats directed at others than her. Except when they reached Shambhala. Zoran was prepared to execute them all systematically before the Guardians attacked. And it only seemed he prolonged the inevitable. Zoran cornered Harry in the end and murdered him all the same. Murdered. I’m already dead. A fuckin’ shame. He entertained the thought of escaping before the dynamic trio arrived, to ditch the grenade and bail. Lazarevic saw an end to that idea. Left on the floor in relative shock, bleeding and with a grenade in hand, he knew it was only a pipe-dream. Flynn was barely able to get his arse up off the ground, clutching onto the undetonated explosive for dear life. He had enough strength to hide himself behind a pillar and wait for … what, rescue? No, it was not going to happen. He thought of throwing the grenade down the stairs after Zoran, but already he knew he could not throw it far enough. He was too winded to even get a safe distance away. So he waited. And now, seeing their despairing eyes all regarding him with sadness and pity, he wondered how they could even stomach it. He would have been too disgusted with his own actions to mourn a traitor. Traitor. The word loomed heavy over his head for weeks. Shooting Nathan on the train was something he hardly believed he was capable of doing a year ago. Especially Nathan. He loved that kid. How had everything gotten so screwed? It was quiet in the chamber, the silence so still and unnerving with the absence of gunfire and roars from enraged Guardians. They would be able to hear a pin drop. Like a grenade pin, the one Flynn was so sorely lacking and probably still looped on Zoran’s finger as a trophy or reminder. One less pain in the ass to deal with. He doubted the man even felt the slightest bit of remorse, despite his months of tedious work and treading on eggshells to ease his boss’ temper. Flynn could only hear his own laboured breathing and pounding heartbeat in his ears. He hoped they did not hear it as loud as he could. And what was he waiting for? Holding the grenade in his numbing hand, the muscles in his arm screaming as he held it above his head, Flynn did not know. Nathan, Chloe, and the blonde reporter were frozen in place, unsure how to act. “Parting gift from Lazarevic… Pity he took the pin,” Harry Flynn rasped with a smirk. He was smiling but he was not sure why. He almost dropped it right then, his arm so goddamn tired. He just wanted it all to end. He could see all their eyes widen in horror, Chloe already moving backwards out of the blast radius. The blonde was the closest, Nathan at her back. If he dropped it now, he’d take them with him. Zoran’s intentions, one final order that went adversely against his morals. As exhausted as he was, he let his arm drop down to his side, still clasping the explosive tight. He couldn’t do it. As frustrating, horrific, and maddening as this whole journey was, he did not have it in him to be what Zoran tried to groom him into. A killer. He did not know the reporter woman. He saw the cameraman, her tag-along and fellow American journalist, murdered in cold blood. But as much as she might have been a thorn in his side, he could not take her with him. “Listen,” Flynn hissed, licking his lips to try and moisten them but only tasting blood. “Go. Now. He’s going to the Tree. Fuckin’ get out of here. You gotta stop that prick.” Their reactions to his request was plain shock, as if this day were not already full of surprises. Immediately, Nathan’s arm went to the blonde’s waist and luring her back towards Chloe. It seemed his girl was making new friends, as Chloe grasped onto the other woman’s wrist and tugged her back despite a sound of protest from the blonde. Flynn felt a flutter of affection. She was always the unpredictable one. Chloe rarely took well to competition. Drake was already gearing up to argue, he could see that stubborn look he knew all too well, the younger man striding, no, racing over to him. “Flynn, wait a min-“  
“Just stop, mate… I can’t keep up. I’m done for.” The words were frightening to utter, he could feel the creeping fear underlying all the exhaustion, the pain, the frustration of it all. To say them aloud meant it was real. He was too proud to tell them anything else, like his real feelings on the matter. And goodbyes were too pathetic. He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his tone, try as he might. “He wanted me to finish you all off. Too bad I was never one for orders, yeah?” Like hell he was going to blow them all up. Not after Lazarevic gave him his most recent souvenir bleeding him out. Obedience was never his strong suit. Or loyalty to those that did not earn it. “We can’t just leave him here,” the blonde insisted, straining against Chloe’s protective grip. To her credit, she did not let go despite the conflict clear on her features. Normally, she was the one to move onward the fastest if someone in the group had been wounded. But he was never part of their group. Former lover, ex-fiancée, but still very much a thief in nature like him. She would have never left him before the contract they took to this hellhole. The incident on the train had immeasurably and irreparably damaged their relationship. He still felt regret about it, but he did feel it was the right course of action considering the alternatives. Lazarevic would have slit Drake’s throat and threw him overboard off the tracks. If he saw Chloe protecting him, he would have slaughtered her too for the treachery. No doubt Flynn would have followed her into the shallow grave, if the warlord granted them that much dignity. But they did not know that. They did not know the demons he grappled with on a daily basis working of the madman. They only saw a traitor. The fact they were still hesitating was entirely due to their good human nature, not out of Flynn’s own character. There used to be resentment over that fact but blood loss put things into perspective and brought clarity. They were the better people for their actions and he knew it. He was an asshole, proved it already. “Sure you could, love,” Flynn murmured, his eyelids feeling heavy as he fought to keep them open. “Just go. I would’ve.” Chloe, her tongue often cut so sharp, but until now she lost it before she had choked out his name when she saw him. “Nate,” she hissed, the awareness back in her eyes. “We need to move. Now.” That’s my girl, get going. You gotta hurry. Harry was not sure, but he must have closed his eyes just for a second. His strength was waning badly. But next thing he knew, Nathan was crouched in front of him, both hands clasped tight around the grenade in his icy fingers. The heat of his touch, the hot-blooded, never-cold Nathan Drake, brought Harry back into full conscious. He meant to jerk the hand away, to keep the explosive to himself where it belonged. But he was so damn weak already. “Fershitsake, Nate, get the fu-“  
“Flynn, shut up,” the younger man almost groaned, and Flynn had to focus his eyes on Nathan’s face with some effort in response to the tone. It sounded thick, harsh with the emotion of it and the unshed tears in those blue-green eyes confirmed what he thought he heard. “Just shut up… Give it to me. C’mon, don’t be any more of a prick than you already been.”  
If he was not so exhausted and drifting back into a grey, fuzzy fog that remained of the world with blood loss, Harry Flynn would have bickered back. He would have fought back somehow. But his hand gave up the explosive without incident, any words of argument dying in his throat. He could only pant for breath at this point, his lungs under pressure. The sound was a rattling wheeze that sounded wet, as blood was beginning to flood into his punctured chest. Frothy red bubbles clung to his lips. Fuck, this is bad. This is so fuckin’ bad. The panicked monologue seemed to drone on in the back of his mind, but at the same time it was like a background radio channel, white noise. “Drake, please…” Harry hissed, he could not raise his voice to speak a normal volume. “Kill him. Kill Zoran.”  
“Oh, believe me, I don’t need to be told twice,” the young Drake almost laughed, but it was forced. His emotions seemed better in control now, but it was clear Flynn’s condition was difficult to witness for him. “Hang in there, buddy… Elena, Chloe, I have to go do this. I need to give this toy back to the asshole who lost it.” Nathan straightened and was already sprinting out of Harry’s limited vision with the grenade in hand. “Take him to the elevator. Get him to the entrance, do what you can. We’re getting the hell out of here.”  
Harry Flynn did not hear anything else. He fought off the creeping unconsciousness long enough and he surrendered to it. He was ready.  
~~~````~~~  
There are fleeting moments of consciousness, small tidbits of memory that unfolded like he was not truly experiencing them himself. It felt like he was watching a film. And each time a mini-film came on air, he was more and more surprised it was happening at all. After all, Harry Flynn was positive he was a dead man in that Cintimani Stone chamber.  
What is death really like? No one alive can tell you unless they experienced it for themselves. Flynn had seen plenty of death already, but never the peaceful sort. Maybe exsanguinating on the floor of some ancient chamber made it seem peaceful with other choices he saw. Every hope, dream, memory, fear, every little abstract characteristic that made Harry Flynn was fading away every second. He could feel it. It was like they ceased to be important. If he was really dying, he supposed that was true. But other than his apathetic limbo, the clips of fleeting consciousness kept him clinging to that little spark. He needed to keep that tiny glimmer of fight alive if he wanted to see another day.  
The first time he was brought back from darkness, it was an effort to wrestle his eyelids open. He could hear Chloe’s voice in his ear, but it sounded so far like his head was underwater. He still felt so miserably cold, and it took a moment to allow his eyes to focus and absorb what he was seeing. A tile floor was gliding by, like he was floating over it but he could see his boots dragging listlessly across them. He coughed hard, to clear his throat of the buildup that formed and found it was clotting blood. It elicit a shrill shout of his name in his ear, and Flynn cringed awake for a few seconds. Both his arms were slung over each of the women’s shoulders, they were practically dragging him along, Chloe at his left, the blonde (Elena?) on his right. Everything else beyond them was so distant, a mirage that shifted and remained muffled and alien. It took him a moment to realize the women were stumbling not under his weight, but the floor under them kept fracturing and quaking. Fuck, this place is falling apart. They were being pelted with debris that steadily showered down from the crumbling ceiling. Flynn was trying to maneuver his body, to at least move his feet along but he might as well been watching from the backseat. The only thing he could seem to accomplish was breathing, or a poor imitation of it. The wheezing and hacking was awful to listen to. “C’mon, Harry,” Chloe chided into his ear, her tone taut with worry. “You’ll be alright… Hang on a while longer.” Flynn strained to lift his head, it felt encased in iron and weighed more than he ever thought possible. He managed to see just up ahead in time for the bridge to unfold before them to the entrance to Shambhala. Earth-shattering explosions were splintering the columns, ignited by the tangles of unidentified trees with flammable sap. He saw it only for another fleeting second, before another wave of blackness swept over his senses and left him in his existential limbo.  
The next clip of consciousness left him pleasantly surprised that it happened at all. The crisis of Shambhala caving in around them when he was possibly dying was as big of a cliff-hanger as any. Flynn felt cold, nothing new, but this time he felt fresh cool air against his face and ruffling his sweaty locks. A breeze tickled through his eyelashes and it took a lot to open them. Blue skies. If it was not for the horrific sucking breaths he was forced to make, he was sure he was dead this time. The back of his head felt wet, he dragged one arm up across the ground at his side to touch it. His fingertips came away bloody. Christ, of course. Bloody butterfingers. They dropped me and let me split my head on the floor. There was no resentment, not even so much as a tinge of annoyance. In the haze of blood loss, his emotions were rendered relatively flat. It would have been nice, laying there, staring up at the sky like it were merely a lazy afternoon at a park. His reality came crashing back at hearing Chloe scream, not a sound to be taken lightly. Chloe never screamed. That chilling cry brought a surge of adrenaline he was sure was not possible in his state, his world swimming back into sharp focus. Flynn brought both heavy, clumsy arms at each side and shoved himself upright, and his breath caught in his throat to see what unfolded. Shambhala was in smoldering ruins, in the process of death throes. A blue fire lit the Tree and cast an electric azure glow over it all, a torch of reckoning. The bridge was collapsing, but what caught his eye was one of those immense Guardians towering over him, his massive hands ensnared around Chloe’s throat and lifting her clear off the ground in an attempt to throttle the life from her. Elena was crouched nearby, firing wildly at the beast as it boomed its ancient language at them. That did the trick, it dropped Chloe and lunged for Elena instead. Not today, asshole. Without knowing exactly what he intended to do, Flynn flung both arms around the tree-trunk sized leg of the Guardian before it could attack the other woman. “Harry, what are you doing?!” Chloe barked out, her voice hoarse from the near-throttling. Not entirely sure, love. I’ll let you know when I find out. He could only grit his blood-stained teeth as he fought to keep the monster from rocketing itself at the women. He only delayed the Guardian for mere seconds, its bestial strength was nothing compared to a dying thief. Harry Flynn was jerked about on the ground for a shake or two, before the giant bastard had enough and stomped down with his other foot on the downed man’s face. Flynn did not see or hear anything else after that. It was simply another fragment of fleeting life.  
When he was sure that was the end of the movie reel, which the story of Harry Flynn ended with a boot to the head by a mutant ancestor Guardian, he was surprised when he could hear a voice calling to him. A man’s voice, one familiar and that he associated with good past memories, not the sad recent ones. Nathan Drake was yelling, hoarse with exhaustion and anxiety, demanding him to stay awake. Nate? You’re not dead, are you? Forcing his eyes open again had added difficulty, it seemed his left eye was swelling and refusing to cooperate. A black silhouette outlined by blinding white light. Cold wind was whistling through his ears and wracking another shiver from him.  
“Oh God, Flynn, hey. Hey now. Buddy, stay with me.” Nathan’s face was the first thing that focused, and Flynn had to take a moment to see the evidence of Zoran Lazarevic’s wrath on the younger man’s features. Ugly dark bands of bruising encircled his broad throat, scrapes and scratches littering his skin from the occasional scrap. But young Drake was still very much alive, and looking very good despite the life-or-death struggle against a homicidal dictator war lord. It took a moment for his good eye to take in his surroundings, drifting about lazily. Nathan Drake had Harry in his arms, one supporting his shoulders and the other had been resting under both legs. The younger man was desperately trying to warm him up, rubbing his unresponsive body in an attempt to generate heat and shielding him from the icy blasts of wind that pierced him using his own bulk. Flynn realized he was drenched in blood, his blood, and Nathan’s hands were coated from trying to apply pressure to the wound. They were in the snow, seated on a stone slab in the monastery outside the secret entrance underneath the tree. They made it. Two other shapes were hovering above Nathan, standing while they were on the ground. Elena had her hands covering her mouth in piteous sadness, close at Chloe’s side. Chloe’s dark eyes were glazed with unshed tears, but she said nothing. It took him a bit to realize why they were hardly making any sounds were because the women were straining to listen to his laboured breathing above the howl of wind. To see them all unharmed and alive was a flood of relief. Flynn could not help but smile, less of a smug smirk and more of genuine happiness. Nathan tried to mimic it, but it was remarkably forced and steeped in grief. “Just hang in there, ass-wipe. You owe me big time. But that’s no good if you die here, alright? Stay awake. Stay here with us. Don’t go anywhere.”  
“Wouldn’t dream of it, mate…” Harry rasped. It hurt to talk. His throat was clenching and dry, the taste of copper thick on his tongue. His eyelids were already drifting closed, the few moments of consciousness giving away what little strength he had stored. He was so damn tired. Nathan was so warm.  
“Hey, come on,” Nathan urged softly, giving the older man’s battered cheek a tap. “Stay here. Help is on the way, you just have to hang on. Sully will be here any minute. The cavalry is coming. There’s going to be a doctor onboard. You’ll be okay. Goddammit, Flynn, how could you be so stupid? You couldn’t fight anything in your condition. That Guardian almost had to scrape you off his boot. If I hadn’t gotten there, you’d be toe-jam.”  
Flynn chuckled. Nathan could always get a giggle out of him, his dry humor paired well with his own. It felt good to have something to finally laugh about, all these long months in hell deprived him of a good joke. He would have said something smartass back, but his words emerged as a cough and splutter, whooping for air between the spasms. Every violent contraction of his chest brought blood to his lips and chin, sometimes as a fine red mist. His weak, limp hands became claws as he desperately fought for oxygen, flying to his chest and throat and hopelessly palming at the internal obstruction. Drowning in his own blood was turning out to be an awful way to go. “Easy,” Drake whispered soothingly, placing one of his hands over Flynn’s at his chest. Nathan’s eyes were despairing, wide with the horror of Flynn’s state. “Take it easy. Stay here with us. I know you been through shit, but you can hang in a while longer. Flynn, come on, talk to me. Tell me, where is your favourite beach?”  
Able to finally suck in some oxygen, Flynn was panting with the effort to expand his lungs, but he clutched for Nathan’s jacket in a weak attempt to drag himself into the warmth. His green eyes, usually so sharp and alight with humor, were distant and fogged like he were intoxicated. Harry did not feel cold anymore. He did not feel pain, he was just numb. The numbness was only an idle concern when Flynn should have known he was slipping into shock. A beach… A favourite beach… Flynn’s thoughts were sluggish, crawling along as his chin rested on his chest. He loved the beach. Any beach, really. As long as there was sand, water and a drink, he was happy. The warmer, the better, but right now, he’d be content with a beach in fuckin’ Northern Alaska. “Cancun…. The tequilas’h cheap…” Flynn’s words were slurring, eyelids drooping closed. It was so hard to stay awake. Not bad last words. Could’ve been better, but I’m so damn ready for a nap. Or a coma.  
Flynn’s smile was rapidly fading, along with his consciousness. He could feel his body slump as each straining, quivering muscle slackened. As he dipped back under into the black nothingness, he could hear Drake’s voice raise in panic. “Flynn? Flynn?! C’mon… Harry, please hang on, Sully’s right over there.” It echoed in the dark, a ripple that gradually disappeared.  
Harry Flynn was sure that was the last time he was going to wake. At best, he thought he would have bled out in his former friend’s arms and finally died. Dying at the monastery would not have been so bad, he would have known that all the madness, heartbreak, blood, sweat and tears was not for nothing. Shambhala has fallen. Zoran Lazarevic is dead. The Tree of Life is gone. All the hell that madman would have unleashed on the entire planet is no longer a problem. Maybe this was peace he felt, a lasting relief to months of bubbling anxieties that kept him awake at night. The monastery was even a beautiful final resting place. Too cold for his tastes, but there were worse places to be buried.  
He was not sure how much time had passed, it could have been anywhere in the space of minutes to days. It was a sharp stabbing pain in his side between his ribs that did not seem to fade at all, but worsen. As if it were not possible, it was drowning out the ache of the gunshot wound in his chest. Harry would have screamed if he were not so weak, he could not stand how agonizing the new pain had soared to. He went to grab at the source, to yank it away, but before he could make decent progress someone’s grip was at his wrist and pinning it to his side. Voices were drifting up to meet him, babbling incoherently in the background, rising in volume steadily until he could make out the words. Piss off, he wanted to growl, but his throat felt packed with dry cotton. He was so thirsty. Flynn’s struggle must have been noted, because the voice shouted back down again.  
“Flynn, cut it out! Hey settle down! You’re safe, we’re on Sully’s plane.” Nathan Drake. Harry wanted to settle down, he really did, but the ice-pick stabbing in his ribs was too much to ignore. “I know it hurts right now, pal. The doctor is putting a chest tube in. We need to get you breathing right.”  
Makes sense. Explains that much. Flynn’s arm stopped writhing in Drake’s grasp, trying to grin and bear it to the best of his ability. He forced his working eye open, trying to take in his surroundings again. There was a steady rumbling drone in the background, the engines of the aircraft Victor Sullivan piloted drowning out all else. Owing Victor a debt was not something Harry looked forward to, he only tolerated the man for Nathan’s sake. If Flynn had his say, they would have ditched the old man years ago. But that was not Drake. He was loyal to the core. He was staring up at the rounded metal ceiling of the plane, laying on a cot in the back passenger area. Flynn had never been on Sully’s plane. He was aware the first had blown up a couple years back and the replacement was a sad excuse for what was missing. There was still attempts to make it homey, posters of pin-ups and landscapes and beaches stuck up along the walls. Another shiver raced through Harry and he groaned, the first sound he managed so far. He was so damn cold. His upper body was completely bare, the blood-drenched jacket and shirt discarded heaps on the floor. It would not have been the first time he was shirtless around Drake, but he felt a flush of shame. Flynn acquired some new marks and scars since he was last bared, courtesy of his former employer’s depraved temper. He only hoped they would not be the trigger to Nathan’s attention.  
The younger man was focused down on the doctor’s work instead, brow furrowed and absently chewing his bottom lip like he was working out a puzzle. The doctor, presumably, was someone Flynn did not recognize or know, a middle-aged woman that did not speak at all. She might not even know English, as she was dressed in Nepalese-styled clothing like the people that lived in the village outside the monastery where Zoran’s forces brutalized the population with a tank. There was a small twitch of guilt deep inside himself, a role he played against the people now helping him. Flynn did not look down at her work, he dreaded what was causing the nauseating agony. The women were nowhere to be seen. Maybe they had their fill of blood for the day. An IV bag filled with dark red fluid was hanging from a ceiling hook, a clear thin tube running down and no doubt attached to him somehow. Blood donation. Good. Thought I was a goner.  
Flynn was trying to shape the words in his mouth, but his tongue was swollen and dry. Christ, I’d kill for a drink. A glass of lukewarm water would be a treat. When he realized verbal commands were beyond him, Flynn tried to use hand gestures but Drake stubbornly bore down on his arm again. Nate, fergodsake, water. You idiot, help me out here. Licking his cracked, bloody lips, Flynn could only stare up at the younger man and hope somehow telepathy would work now of all times. A jedi mind-trick. Anything.  
“Flynn? You okay? She’s going to try and put in the tube now. I won’t lie, it’s going to hurt like hell. I got you, alright pal?”  
Wait, so that pain was not the tube already? Goddammit, how much worse can it-  
The thought ended abruptly before he can even end the train of thought, white hot excruciating agony lighting up his entire abdomen and webbing up his torso. Something blunted was being jammed into the spot, and Harry’s spine arched taut against the cot with a dry, cracking howl. It sounded like a bobcat with its tail caught in a doorjamb, and it took a moment to realize the noise was coming from him. He could only feel Drake’s hands on him now, his eyes were squeezed tightly shut as he tried to cope with the mindless pain. Flynn would have given anything for it to stop, would have given his left nut if there was an option. He could only writhe in the cot, his breath a harsh gasp to try to heave in oxygen. Then he was out again. He accepted the black nothingness thankfully, grateful for an escape from the torment. He could hear Drake’s raising shouts of panic again, dropping away until he could only hear the suggestions of a whisper. And then it was dark.  
~~~````~~~  
There were moments in between where Harry appeared to regain lucidity and consciousness, but he would not remember any of the events beyond the insertion of the chest tube on Sullivan’s plane. It was as if his subconscious mind had acted to protect and shield itself on what information can be deemed traumatic. Flynn had lost much of his blood volume, affecting his brain on how it can process memory.  
Four days after his rescue, Flynn had endured a terrible infection that nearly claimed his life. His sun-kissed skin was ghostly pale, clammy and damp from perspiration although he never seemed to stop shaking. The wound on his chest was a hot, angry red and purple, pus seeping from between the stitches. Nathan Drake never left his side but had noticed something unusual about the latest symptoms despite some of the others brushing it off as recovery. Flynn’s eye occasionally flicked open, unfocused and staring blindly. Even when Nathan tried to get his attention, there was no recognition there. His breathing was harsh, feathery pants that appeared stressed. And hauntingly, Harry never spoke, not once. It scared the living shit out of Nathan, he had never seen Harry like that ever. It was not until Flynn actually begun to seize up when the doctor sprang into action, the final symptom no longer able to be ignored or trivialized. He was going septic. Flynn’s wounds were infected, if they did not treat it, he would die.  
The antibiotics were not in the village, much to Drake’s dismay and sorrow. It took about a day for them to be flown in with Sully’s help, the longest 24 hours of Drake’s young life. Harry’s condition had not deteriorated but remained stable, stubborn to hold on as Nathan hoped. But during that long wait, Drake witnessed something that made his blood run cold.  
Flynn and Drake were left alone, Nathan had actually contributed a lot in cleaning the wounds and maintaining Harry’s bandages with his insistence. With an infection, Drake had to be sure everything was kept clean and he was not entirely trusting of the doctor’s definition. To Nathan’s dread and disgust, the bullet wound and obvious gouges on Harry’s rugged, handsome face were not his only injuries. His broad, tanned back was marred with numerous slits and deep slices inflicted by a blade. When he found out that was not the worst trauma, Nathan nearly puked. Harry’s thighs were gored up, a crude ‘Z.L’ carved into his left ass-cheek. The wounds were older, no longer needing stitches and some fresh knitted pink scar tissue already erupting under the scabs. It was hard to see Flynn like that. But despite the gruesome recovery, Flynn was unresponsive. It was so unlike him, it was chilling.  
Nathan was dozing when it happened. For a moment, he thought he was dreaming. Flynn was sitting up straight, hands limp in his lap, staring dead ahead of him although the room was empty other than themselves. No amount of calling his name would rouse him from that bizarre trance. But when Drake touched his shoulder, just to lure him back onto the mattress, Flynn screamed. It was not a pained cry, a startled yelp, or a spooked howl. It was a terrified, mindless shriek that tore from his vocal cords and nearly deafened Drake from the proximity. Flynn’s bandaged hands disappeared into his auburn locks, almost pulling if not for Nathan’s actions of grabbing his wrists. The episode ended as fast as it begun. Flynn went slack in Nathan’s hold, collapsing down and nearly face-planting into his own legs. The awful sounds stopped. Flynn’s eyes closed and he was back to that exhausted rasping.  
Nathan never mentioned it to anyone, not even Chloe when she asked what the hell that screaming was. He played it off as an eagle nearby overhead. It was not hard to believe, there were eagles everywhere along the mountain.  
~~~````~~~  
Harry Flynn did not remember if he dreamed. All he knew was being awake and screaming on Sully’s plane and then blacking out. He came to some semblance consciousness at last when he became aware he could feel his whole body aching. He was suspended in a haze, it felt like he was packed in a snow-drift or buried after an avalanche. It was that cold, at least. He was shivering, each tremor bringing a new wave of soreness. He could breathe. Flynn took an experimental inhale, surprised to feel his lungs fully expand and not suffocating, despite the tenderness of his ribs. He took a mental calculation of his faculties. Alright… Arms, check. Legs, check. Not paralyzed. Not sure about brain damage, though. That ugly shit kicks hard. He was still very thirsty. There was a wicked headache throbbing behind his eyeballs that sent electric shocks into his skull. As he was taking note of his various ailments, he had become aware of numerous hushed sounds in the environment. A soft rhythmic beeping somewhere close, he recognized it as a heartrate monitor. There was a quiet snore immediately to his left, right next to him. Someone was keeping vigil at his bedside. Flynn was a little taken aback. He was sure everyone’s faith in him had shaken to the point they’d help him enough to live and leave him be. A traitor’s exile. Forcing his eyes open, Harry winced as he craned his neck enough to glance about. His natural curiosity won over any desire to nap through the pain.  
Flynn was no longer in an aircraft but a small cabin, dimly lit with a lantern on a nearby table. Where the hell is this? The construction was wood logs and panels, brightly painted and decorated with colour flags strung across the ceiling like streamers. Furniture was sparse and simple. The bed he was occupying was low to the ground as his visitor revealed, actually more or less sitting on the carpeted floor. Mostly. Nathan Drake himself was asleep at his bedside, arms folded and face pressed down into the blankets, dark cropped hair in his immediate view. The cabin was small, allowing him to see they were the only ones in the room. There was medical equipment and supplies scattered about, loose bandages waiting nearby in sterile white. It took him a moment or two to get his bearings. Nepal. That village in fuckin’ Nepal. Saw enough of it smashed to pieces by Zoran’s crew to know that. Saw what a lot of those houses looked like on the inside when they explode. Flynn glanced up above him, observing an IV bag, this time full with a clear saline. The telltale heart-rate monitor was above his head at the top of the bed, a rather dated design of equipment that made him realize how far he was from a modern hospital.  
Leave it to Drake to wake me with his snoring. ‘Least he eased off the chainsaw a bit. His throat was too dry to even try and muscle out a word, he doubted it would be heard at all through the quiet white noise. Flynn opted for the bolder move, fighting back a groan as he slid his trembling arm along the rough-spun wool blankets. Drake could sleep heavy, especially when he was exhausted. Until you touched him. Daringly, he slid a few bandaged fingers through the brunette locks, sweeping the tussled mess backwards from his scraped forehead. The younger man stretched, oddly feline-like, stirring out of his nap and propping his chin on his arms to see the patient he was waiting on. There was a split second of confusion in those blue-green eyes, flitting up to Harry then honing in. Flynn must have looked like shit, not as shitty as before, but still shit. Drake’s expressions were always an open book, the man wore his heart on his sleeve. Nathan’s brow furrowed with worry, snapping himself up straighter on the cushion he was seated on.  
“Flynn, holy shit… Hey, pal,” the American murmured softly, a tone of concern and a mothering instinct Flynn would have thoroughly enjoyed busting Nathan’s balls over if he was not so damn drained. “We thought we lost you there for a while. You… you weren’t well, buddy. Just save your strength, alright? Your fever broke last night. The infection is almost fully under control, but it took time. You been out a week.”  
A fuckin’ week. You must be shittin’ me. It took time for him to bring himself back from the brink. Harry Flynn would have chuckled, but it came as a rusty croak. The damn thirst was going to be the bane of his new existence. Weakly, he clutched at his own throat, miming a glass of water for himself to drink by bringing the invisible vessel to his lips. To his pleased astonishment, the younger man’s head perked up and he went stiffly scrambling for a pitcher of water perched on a nearby table. Drake was scanning the room for a cup, a glass, but Harry growled with urgency. Piss on the glass, gimme the whole damn thing, mate. C’mon.  
“Okay, okay, keep your pants on. Little sips at first, right? If you choked, Chloe would kick my ass.” Drinking out of the pitcher proved to be a bit clumsy but beyond satisfying. Cool water ran down his chin and chest, but Harry greedily swallowed as much down as he felt he could physically manage without vomiting. Drake was supporting his shoulders with one hand, the other holding the pitcher. “Okay, that’s it. Not too much yet, you’ll puke.”  
Reluctantly, Flynn stopped convulsively swallowing water and took a shaky, whooping breath. He coughed, sending shockwaves of agony through his body, but at the same time it felt the best he had since first coming upon Shambhala. He slumped back into the pillow, grinning in spite of his situation. Nathan Drake was frowning gently, his brow furrowed and the beginnings of lines indenting into the skin. “Th-…Thanks, mate,” Harry hissed, grimacing and clutching at his throat. So that’s what a coma for a week feels like. A throat lined with broken glass. Christ, I’d love a pint. Flynn considered looking down at his body, to maybe evaluate the damage he sustained but the mounds of rough-spun blankets and covers vetoed that. It was too bitterly freezing to give them up, although Drake himself was not perturbed by the chill. He was wearing a brightly dyed red-maroon sweater, courtesy of their hosts.  
“Just don’t talk too much, Flynn. I know that’s tough for you, but it’s for the best. You lost a lot of blood. Scared the shit out of all of us. The doctor…” Drake trailed off, that troubled look crossing his face again. Flynn knew that look. He saw it when Drake got that hero-complex running, needing to save the wounded no matter how hopeless. “She said if we were maybe five minutes later, you wouldn’t be here. It was close, Flynn. You almost died. Hell, if Sully did not pull some crazy maneuvers on the way… We’ve been taking shifts at your bed. Elena, Chloe, me… Sully took over a few times. The surgery took about a day. We had to test for blood donors. Tenzin was a match, and a couple others. We had entire lineups for people getting tested. Everyone stepped up. You know what they say, it takes a village.”  
Flynn was not sure what to make of that. The very people he victimized and targeted and threatened were fighting to save his life. Not just Drake and his mismatch band of do-gooders but the people of this small village he nearly helped wipe off the map. If he was in their shoes, he could not say he would do the same. Harry knew that’s what made him decidedly different from them. In plain terms, he worked for the bad guy. He could admit his own motives were selfish at times. But were they all selfish as thieves? But before all that could be faced, he had to accept facts. Time to take his medicine.  
Harry strained to whisper, making sure he moved his lips more exaggerated than usual to help Nathan understand him. His voice was a small hiss and using as few words as possible to minimize his suffering. “How bad?”  
There it was again. That sympathetic little furrow of his eyebrows, the kicked-puppy look when Nathan saw something that tugged at his heartstrings. He always was a sap. “Bad. Very bad. You stopped breathing at the monastery. Right after you spoke last. We took turns with CPR until Sully got there. We weren’t going to lose you, Flynn. I wasn’t going to let you go without a fight, I know Chloe and Elena wanted the same. The doctor started surgery right away. The bullet didn’t pass through, took some time to get at it… No offense bud, but I couldn’t see that. I stuck around for as much as I could, but everybody has their limits. Turns out, that was not even the start. Flynn that Guardian nearly caved your face in. One kick and he gave you an immediate concussion. You needed I don’t know how many stitches. One of your teeth got knocked out. Three broken ribs. Punctured lung. That’s what nearly got you. The bullet just barely missed your heart but got your lung. Then the infection afterwards… Jesus. Flynn, you nearly died. They had to treat with some strong antibiotics. The fever was burning you out. You were screaming in your sleep, buddy. I thought it was the pain, but I guess you were delirious. I doubt you remember it. You were pretty out of it.”  
Lovely. No stranger to a beating, but some of that is fuckin’ new. His tongue had wandered to probe the empty socket where his missing tooth should be, a back molar. How the hell do you punch out a back molar tooth? Zoran must have steel plates in his gloves. He did not know a man could punch so fucking hard. Up until Shambhala, Lazarevic never struck him using his full strength and never in the face. Flynn never asked why, he was afraid asking might give the asshole a reason to do so. He did not remember anything else other than waking on the plane. It was a bit unnerving to think he was reacting automatically and he did not recall even a glimmer. It was not a stretch of the imagination to think what nightmares was causing his night terrors.  
His quiet reflection was interrupted, the younger man leaning closer, that sympathetic bleeding-heart look not wavering. Flynn felt a flicker of nervousness. “Flynn, if I knew what he was doing to you, I would have convinced you to come with us. Jesus, how come you didn’t say anything? The doctor was looking you over… You have injuries on you lasting months, pal. She said they looked like they were inflicted with a knife. Chloe said she never –“  
Fuck. Flynn’s hand jerked out and grabbed Nathan’s wrist, clutching it tight. Drake flinched at the suddenness, caught off-guard but managing to not pull away. If there is one thing he swore he would keep to himself, it was the terms of working under Zoran Lazarevic. Flynn was sure he was going to take those secrets to the grave. No one could know. He did not spend all the fucking time in Borneo dodging Chloe for the fact Zoran was beating him nightly and carving him up for his enjoyment would have become obvious. And Chloe? Elena? Victor goddamn Sullivan? Who else knows? Flynn had to know. “Who… who knows about that?” Harry’s voice came out no more as a groan.  
Staring at Nathan seemed to make him uncomfortable regarding this topic, he was squirming under Flynn’s gaze, dropping his light eyes bashfully. He’d give anything to know what the younger man was thinking. The scrapes and cuts Nathan got during his battle of Shambhala were discolouring bruises and scabs. He always healed quickly without incident. “Other than the doctor? I do. Chloe might suspect… Elena too. She speaks Tibetan, more than I do. I know we aren’t close anymore, Flynn. I don’t know what I did to piss you off like that—“  
“Fuckin’ stow it, mate,” Flynn barked out, a volume he did not think he could utter shocking Nathan into silence. His throat burned, but not as much as his raging temper. The realization all his determination to keep that secret being wasted stung. The fact Drake was pretending he did not know what he did wrong was a slap in the face. It was like being kicked while already down. “You know what you did… My fuckin’ fiancée, Drake? Really? That’s why, sweetheart. My bloody hotel room was beside yours. Conspiring with the woman I was to marry, you prick. That. Is what you did to piss me off.” Harry released Drake’s wrist like the man’s skin was crawling underneath his touch, unable to bear holding it any longer. His fury burned him out, what strength he had essentially wasted. His throat was clenching painfully, trying to swallow past an obstruction that felt like it was smothering him. Tears were burning in his eyes. God-fuckin-dammit, I can’t cry in front of this lad. I won’t. Not after all this. He refused to let them fall, blinking them away quick. Even looking at the younger man was challenging, so he stared up at the wood-beam ceiling, glaring at it as it were the cause of this latest grievance.  
There was a faint stirring at the side of his bed, Nathan was shifting in his seat. Good. Harry hoped his ass was numb, that both his legs were asleep and now prickling with pins and needles. It was petty, but it would have made him feel a bit better. For a while, no one spoke. Flynn had reached his verbal capacity, craving more water but too proud to ask for it. The silence was a barrier, a stillness that only solidified the shattered bond between them. The only sound in the quiet was the heart rate monitor faithfully beeping in tune with the patient’s pulse.  
Nathan broke it after maybe minutes, but it felt like it had been a lifetime. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Flynn. Christ, I… I don’t know what I was thinking. It was her idea from the start, she even got me out of that prison you put me in. I just… Shit. It’s a shitty excuse. I know it is. I… shouldn’t have agreed to it. It wasn’t even about Chloe. It was about Marco Polo’s lost fleet. Dammit. If I knew what I know now, I would have convinced you to walk away from it. I would have convinced you both. It was never worth it. Too many people died for that … resin. All we were doing was adding to the pile. Flynn… Hey. Lazarevic is dead. He’s gone. The Tree is gone. Shambhala is nothing but ruins. All that turned out to be a death trap. If we were half as smart as we think we are, we’d move on. Maybe you can still work things out with Chloe. You’re still alive, pal. That means something. You can go anywhere from here.”  
Harry Flynn was not one to be double-crossed, especially by someone he considered his brother. A near-mortal injury, however, grants a peculiar clarity. He would have normally told Drake to fuck himself, but his rage ebbed to a mild irritation. He got it. Harry understood all too well. If Chloe jumped his bones like that with a wild proposition, he would have been along for the ride soon enough. He never could deny her anything. He doubted the younger man had better restraint. But Drake was so naïve for someone his age. For a while, he was sure Nathan played dumb on purpose but Harry could see by Nathan’s floundering of various relationships of the fairer sex that he was … not necessarily inexperienced, just naïve. Chloe would not take him back. After Nathan blown up half the train, Chloe had rounded on him with a fury he had been stunned by. She threw the ring back, now occupying his pocket and speaking levels about how that went. Flynn still busted his ass trying to shield her from the warlord, even though her allegiances were discovered. Drake was right. He could go anywhere from here. But he cannot go back to the life he had before. It’s gone. “… Nate.” Flynn’s voice was a harsh whisper again, but he had to speak his mind. He waited long enough. “… I can’t go back. I have nowhere to go. Chloe and I are through. She’s clear on that. I… have nothing. No job. No home. I sold everything for this… and it blew up with the bloody fuckin’ Tree.” It was hard not to feel bitter about that. As much of a living nightmare Zoran was, he was a paycheck. And now his boss is deceased, without a chance of collecting on what was owed.  
Flynn dared shift his head on the pillow to glance to Drake, mild irritation becoming full annoyance to see that sympathetic, ‘can we take it home’ look. If Nathan fired back a bit with some trademark sass, it would have been more tolerable. But he was all sympathy. It was pissing him off.  
Nathan Drake’s brows were gently furrowed, his eyes softened from the temperamental spark that often lingered there. His lips were pressed together tight, fighting to keep a neutral expression. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, Flynn. It’s been a shitshow from the start. I guess I never realized what was happening with you… I just thought you went with who was paying you. I… saw Lazarevic do some things, like at the monastery. I didn’t think he was doing anything else than threatening you. How… how could I know? Listen, if you want to talk about it—“  
“No.” The response was curt, a finalized decision.  
“I didn’t mean right now, you shouldn’t be talking. Flynn, I… I took responsibility for changing the bandages. I saw what he did to you. I admit, I was pissed at you for shooting me. I get it now. But I had no idea he was doing this. Christ, Flynn…”  
“Shut it,” Flynn grumbled wearily. “Make yerself useful… water.”  
The drink was a welcome distraction. Nathan helped him sit up and brought the pitcher close again. Harry drained the rest of it and slumped back with a gasp. It gave him a minute to gather his thoughts. Flynn was no-fucking-where near ready to confess what happened in the emerald hell of Borneo, or in the chilling peaks of Nepal. He would have preferred to stuff it down, lock it away, barricade it behind mental doors until an inevitable mental breakdown happened and he went on a wild bender. It has been a while since Harry resorted to using that unhealthy coping mechanism, maybe fifteen years, when he was in his early twenties. He was never good at therapeutic hobbies or productive talk-outs, he was not raised that way. And, how could he even begin to explain what it was like to go through the worst days of his entire life? He lost the love of his life, the trust of his friend, the score of a century, and his very fucking dignity. He gave up everything, even his own body. Zoran saw to that personally. It was something he never would have agreed to if he known what deal he was making with what kind of devil. But, if anything, he supposed there were worse things than being dead.  
Nathan was trying to keep his hands busy. Flynn knew how fidgety the younger man could be, doodling in one of the many leather-bound journals he always had on hand in a spare minute. This time, he was smoothing out the blankets, tucking them under to keep his patient warm. The older man watched him for a time. He was mad at Drake, on the train he wanted to kill him for interfering and possibly getting all of them murdered. How can I be mad at the one that saved me? Nathan-damn-Drake. You little shit. A rueful smirk curled at his lips. Look at him fuss. A mother hen. If he wasn’t so good at it, I’d bust him for it. Flynn had to admit, he was thankful for the younger man’s gentle nursing. Drake would bottle-feed kittens he found in alleys, he could never turn down a hurting soul. That kindness might even be the death of him one day. But Nathan was who he was. Gentle to pet every animal he saw, but at times ruthless enough to clear out nearly all of Zoran Lazarevic’s personal army. It was nice to see him do something other than defend himself or sneaking about.  
Nathan caught the smile, mimicking it for himself. It was more natural this time. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. You’re lucky. So fucking lucky, Flynn. You must have a horseshoe in your ass or something. You have no idea how many scares you gave us. We thought of finding your next of kin. In case, you know.”  
“Got none,” Flynn simply stated. He did not want to get into that particular topic, but it seems Drake has got his entire off-limits list of conversational starters. They never discussed each other’s family, parents, siblings, anything significant. Harry had a feeling there was a good reason on Drake’s end, like he had one for his own. They simply danced around the subject, talking hours about just anything else. Families in a thief’s line of work made it complicated. Maintaining relationships beyond blood relations when always travelling was a task in of itself. As a rule, people in their line of business did not talk families. “Would have been best to dig a hole and toss me in it.”  
The good-natured grin fell abruptly from the younger man’s face, a solemn woe replacing it. Flynn decided it was a poor choice of words, but Drake brought it up. It was strange. Death was a fact of their daily life, it was steeped in their business. All the treasures, the secrets, the bounties they searched for belonged to long-dead explorers. The tombs they scavenged were stacked with bones, bodies of a past age. It was impossible to ignore it all. But discussing their own final wills? What to do with their remains? Who the hell wants to think about that? Drake’s eyes were ringed with dark circles, wearily rubbing at them with a soft sigh. Christ, he looks like hell. Natey-boy hasn’t been sleeping. Would bet my ass he took up most those bed-side shifts. Sullivan made him take a break. Why else would that sad old shit be here?  
“Harry,” Nathan murmured, and Flynn could hear the shift in the younger man’s voice. Nathan rarely called him by his first name. He was struggling with the concept of his friend dying, his tone soft and somber. “I… couldn’t leave you here. You hate it here. You always bitched about the cold.” That brought a small smirk to Flynn’s sore lips. It was true. Any jobs with a mild chill involved earned his ire. “I know you wouldn’t be in… your body if you died. But I couldn’t stand the thought of you here, cold in the ground. It wasn’t right. I would have brought you home… where ever home is for you. I’m sure Chloe wouldn’t have allowed you to be buried here neither. We would have flown you out for treatment, but your condition was too unstable. And now winter is here. We’ll have to wait for the spring to set out or at least milder weather, and hopefully by then you’ll be able to fly the hell out of here.”  
Of-fuckin-course it is winter. Zoran, I swear, I hope there is a special circle in Hell for shits like you. Flynn fought a shiver, gritting his teeth bitterly to stop them from chattering. No wonder he felt like he was a block of ice. His throat felt a bit better, the second dose of water helped. He hated that the apparent secret Tree of Life happened to reside in the coldest corner of the planet. He hated being somewhere completely unknown and foreign to him and left to strangers’ mercy. He hated the helplessness of it.  
A wisp of movement and Harry flinched to feel a warm hand settle on his forehead. “Hey. It’s okay, Flynn. You’re safe now. You’re gonna be okay.” A calloused thumb pressed between his eyebrows, kneading gentle circles there. The touch was surprisingly tender for such a typically clumsy and heavy-fisted man such as Drake. If he was not so exhausted, Flynn would have resisted and shot warning words in response. The sensation was actually rather nice, soothing the spiking headache. “I’m so sorry, Flynn. I should have got you out of there. We’ve dealt with assholes like him before, but… That was something new. It doesn’t matter anymore. You’re safe. You’re okay.”  
Drake, you naïve little shit. You can’t save everyone. Harry closed his eyes, feeling them burn again with tears, a lump in his throat threatening a sob if he allowed it. I’m not going to cry in front of this lad. I can’t. I won’t let it. He thinks I’m a battered, broken hostage. I fuckin’ stayed. I made that choice. Instead, he bit down on his lower lip, feeling a sharp sting as the healing split was put under pressure. “Nate… You couldn’t save me. Zoran did not have a fuckin’ gun to my head. He had one to Chloe’s. I would have died for her. I still would.” There was a stab a guilt and grief deep down in the core of his being. The engagement to Chloe was a temporary solution to a very permanent problem Harry dealt with since as long as he could fathom. He had a big empty hole deep inside, a pit that left him feeling hollow and incomplete. He supposed most people had families and networks of friends to make up that. He got down on his knee to the first woman he fell for in a hope to make things right. Maybe she sensed something in him, a sixth sense more adjusted people seem to have to sniff out flakiness or imposters trying to fit into domestic life. Maybe Chloe could smell out the fact he was already broken, a parody of a healthy functioning adult, a mask he could put on to lure in others. And now I’m alone again. How am I going to get through this? Fuck. No amount of restraint could stop the tears now. Even squeezing his eyes shut, hot tracks ran from underneath and crept down his skin. That fuckin’ grenade. I should have kept it. Let it go before they got in there to stop me.  
Nathan felt the tears before he saw them, his gentle massage pausing before allowing the soothing pace to continue. Flynn was grateful Drake did not acknowledge them.  
~~~````~~~  
The nightmares are what mainly kept Flynn from sleeping for long, if not the nauseating throbbing agony in his chest. Flynn always dealt with nightmares before, it has been a bane since his childhood and dogged him through life ever since. He could deal with regular nightmares. It was the ones that played out as memories, very recent memories, which brought out his struggles with insomnia more evidently. The worst was the ugly, detailed visions of his former employer.  
Nathan saw Harry snap awake between fits of sleeping, disturbed by a chilling image of his dreams. Flynn would play it off, always. This was a subject he was nowhere ready to probe into. It unfolded differently, but almost always the actual truth, not a dream-distortion. Perhaps the truth was more horrific than anything his imagination could invent. The current he was trapped in was a real pain in the ass.  
Harry could see it all over again. Borneo. It always came back to fucking Borneo. The air was thick with petrichor and humid mists, ropes and vines of moss stringing through gargantuan trees like ghastly cobwebs. The chorus of bugs and birds and wildlife rang loud in his ears, but not able to entirely drown out Harry’s own quiet hyperventilating. Fuck. Oh my God, no. His feet were moving automatically, carrying him to Zoran’s extravagantly large canvas tent set apart from the others. The floors were plank wood precisely placed so not even a toe can slip between the cracks. Night had fallen, a trail of lanterns and campfires lighting his way, to the dimly lit structure that was his destination.  
Jesus, please, no, please stop moving. Flynn’s boot-clad feet trudged onward reluctantly, up the walkway and steps before pausing outside the drawn flaps. During the day, the walls were drawn up to allow air to flow freely and at night, like now, they dropped down to a terrifying secluded lair. Zoran Lazarevic had summoned him minutes before, his temper fouled and his mood hideously soured by the series of explosions that tore apart their other campsite and countless men lost. Nathan Drake and his geriatric tag-along Victor Sullivan, they blew it to pieces before robbing their camp and blowing that half to shit, too. Now someone had to pay. Harry had a bad feeling on whose hide was going to be whipped raw.  
Don’t go in. Please, don’t go in. Stop, don’t, he’s going to kill you. Harry Flynn felt like screaming, but he could only watch in a bystander’s admittance while seeing it all through his own eyes. His body moved on its own, as his feet were clearly betraying him, ducking into the tent and drawing the flap closed hastily. The hulking shape of Zoran loomed over the slabs of wood he had lain out as tables, a series of maps and photos and graphs and sketches skewed across in no particular order, palms pressed down into the surface as he leaned down to peer closer in the growing dark held at bay by the meagre glow of a lantern. His shadow was like a living, breathing monster, casting its penumbra over Harry.  
“Mr. Flynn,” the Serbian accent growled, a voice that made Flynn’s knees want to quiver in terror. Harry felt very small beside his beast of a man, disfigured with recent burn scars that only added to his already severe appearance. “You have decided to grace me with your presence.” Zoran was never a patient man. Five minutes delay meant the courier was purposely dragging their feet. “Come here. Tell me what you see.”  
See? Flynn’s boots thudded gently over the floorboards with each step, his stride almost jaunting, as he done before. He was determined not to reveal his fear to the man before. He knows now how that never works. Still, his auto-pilot-self sauntered on over to his boss’ side, meaning to peer past outstretched arms to the items he was possibly talking about. See? I don’t see anything, please, don’t, just run. “I see what I’ve been staring at for three months, boss,” he heard himself say, snarky and mischievous.  
“A comedian. A funny man,” Zoran mused, and Flynn was helpless for what followed even though he knew it was coming. A giant gloved hand seized the back of his neck and brought his face smashing down hard into the table. If he did not have the instinctive reaction to turn his head, just an inch, his nose would have just broken flat into his face. His entire skull rang, his face sore and throbbing with his pulse. Harry heard himself yelp in shock and pain, his own hands shooting up to free himself, trying to wrench the iron-grip off his throat. The digits almost completely encircled his neck from the back, and he was dreadfully aware how easy his spinal column would snap like kindling if Zoran willed it. “If you stopped making jokes, you would see Marco Polo’s inscriptions and writings are gone. Your little friend interfered and stole the main documents.” Flynn was struggling to squirm free, nearly writhing as that death-grip tightened and began to pinch off the blood supply. He was going to black out, his head swimming in grey haze, fighting for consciousness, when Zoran released his grip. Before he could suck in a breath and relax, or even stand up straight again, a knee slammed up into his ribs and knocked the oxygen clear out of his diaphragm and lungs. Harry dropped onto his back, floored by the sheer power, hot laces of pain flowing from newly-shattered ribs. He couldn’t fucking breathe. Tears streaming from his eyes, saliva clinging to his chin and the small bit of facial hair he maintained there, Flynn struggled to rake in a breath through battered lungs. Where the fuck was Chloe? Gone. Where? He didn’t know, she never seemed to be around when Zoran lost his temper.  
“So, funny man, still have another joke for me?”  
Jesus, no, Zoran, please, just stop.  
Still sucking in heaves of air, Flynn’s mouth opened to protest or deny or … something, but a cold metal barrel jammed down into his teeth, prying them apart without mercy. Flynn’s mouth opened wider to accommodate, to spare chipping his teeth from the assault, before he could realize what was even happening. Zoran’s unremorseful, cold grey eyes stared down at him past the 9 mm pistol now jutting into his throat, daring to make him gag. “Try me, funny man. Or better. Tell me another joke.” The click of the safety thumbed off made Flynn want to puke, trembling violently even though it felt like 50 degrees in that humid, miserable jungle.  
“Take your pants off, Mr. Flynn. I will not ask twice.”  
Oh God, Zoran, please, let me go.  
Flynn’s hands moved without his consent, unbuckling his belt and working his jeans off as he lay pinned under the pistol. After what seemed an eternity, Zoran’s finger almost lovingly stroking the trigger as if to entertain the idea, the pistol was forcefully extracted from his throat. Flynn whooped for air, coughing and gagging as he rolled onto his stomach and meant to crawl away, retreat to solitude. A heavy black-polished mashing into his spine forbid him to even budge, Flynn feeling the harsh wood against his bare, limp cock as he was forced into the floor. “Jesus, Zoran, I’m sorry, I had no idea they rigged the fuckin’ camp. You gotta believe me. I don’t know who is doing it, but I am not the one, I swear to you. It’s Drake!” Panic was deeply saturated in his voice, spilling out like vomit. He said these same words before, a brutal déjà vu.  
The name brought a sneer to Zoran’s snarling features, stuffing the saliva-shined pistol back into the holster. “Drake. The one you left behind in your raid. He proves more capable than you are. How can I trust you, Mr. Harry Flynn?”  
“You can trust me, mate, believe me, you can trust me with your life. I promise you, Zoran, we’ll find it! I just need time.”  
The knife being tugged free from its sheath brought an icy chill of pure terror through Flynn, having observed that same knife gut one of his own men earlier that day for stealing some trinkets from a ruin site. It was clean, meticulously sharpened and deadly. “Trust cannot be bought with money, Mr. Flynn. It is bought with blood.”  
Flynn could only close his eyes, biting into his fist as he saw the blade lower into his own ass. It dimpled there harmlessly against one cheek, for just a split second before puncturing the skin and dragging, agonizingly slow, to carve two distinct letters. Harry screamed himself hoarse into his own hands, biting into his fingers hard enough to shed blood. That did not stop the whole camp from hearing his torture that night. When Lazarevic was satiated, Harry dared a teary glance back to his own rear, mortified to see ‘Z.L’ crudely incised into his skin of his ass-cheek and just coating his entire ass with hot, sticky blood. It pooled underneath his sides and crotch, dripping into his pubic hair. That new carving joined the numerous other cuts and gouges along his twitching thighs, various states of healing and ugly, black bruises that resembled massive hands.  
“Let that be a lesson it is who owns you now, Mr. Flynn. You cost me the lives of my men and three months of my time. I will not tolerate traitors and I will not continue to be disappointed tonight.”  
Flynn was slowly crawling off to the flap of the tent entrance, eager to escape when he heard Zoran’s own belt unbuckle before the heavy holster thud to the floor. No, oh God, Zoran, please, no. He was struggling to move faster, the sickening agony delaying his progress before an iron-grip snapped close around his ankle and viciously slid him back across the splintery floor, wood biting into his exposed skin. No amount of clawing or thrashing would free him. Flynn did not need to be in the moment again to know his ass still hurt from the last time Lazarevic used him this way. There was never any tenderness or patience or simply a desire to mutually please his partner, it was painful, bloody, humiliating. No foreplay, no preparation, not even a drop of lube. He never was privileged to even get fucked on a cot or a table, rather shamefully rutted into the floor every damn time. Gloved hands pinned his shoulders to the floor briefly before they went to his hips, adjusting them to arch upwards against him.  
“Fuck! Zoran, please, I swear I’ll find it for you. Just please, let me go tonight, I can’t do this right now. Zoran, please I’m beggin’ you, no!”  
“Shut up, or your tongue will be next.”  
Flynn snapped awake, drenched in sweat, nearly lunging up out of bed if not for the stabbing agony of his wounds bringing him back to reality. Wincing, Flynn clutched to his chest. “Ow, fuck…”  
“Goddamn, Flynn,” Nathan murmured gently, a bit of a grin on his youthful features. It was so unlike the mad gaze of Zoran, Flynn felt his heart’s hammering pace already ease back. “You scared the hell out of me there. You okay? That wasn’t even a solid hour of a nap.”  
“Fine,” Harry could only hiss back, before rolling over. Totally fine, alright. Totally fuckin’ fine. Just can’t sleep without that asshole haunting me, cutting me to bloody pieces, raping me in my own fuckin’ blood. He’s dead, right? How come my brain doesn’t fuckin’ know that?  
~~~````~~~  
Two days later, Chloe had left the small Nepalese village, but not before she took over at Harry’s bedside to clear the air. Harry Flynn was forever grateful for that. A week before, it was looking like they would have never got the chance. There was so much he wanted to say to her but he did not dare with Lazarevic breathing down their necks.  
Flynn woke out of another countless nap, this time finding his company had changed. Nathan Drake had given up too many sleepless nights and he deserved a needed rest. Chloe Frazer sat perched on a nearby table, long legs crossed idly, her eyes distant with daydreaming. When she noticed he was staring at her, drinking her in, she sprung up to her feet and immediately sunk onto the floor at his bedside to the cushion Nathan previously occupied.  
“Oh, Harry…You scared the shit out of us, mate,” Chloe’s voice, so smooth like velvet to him, was thick with the emotion that threatened to overtake the past week. She always was the strong sort, stubbornly so. When he offered his hand, she took it readily, clasping it in both of her own and cradling it like a wounded bird. “You’re a real prick, you know that?”  
He could not help but laugh. Harry snuffled a chuckle out, no matter how much it pained him. “I know, love. I know.” That is putting it mildly. I deserve it. I fucked up.  
“No, I don’t think you do,” she sighed, exasperated like she would often sound when dealing with the stubborn drive of men. He heard it often, one of the little quirks he loved her for. “You’re a real asshole. Bad enough you brought us into the job that put us here, but you nearly got yourself killed. Not just once. What the hell did you think was going to happen with that Guardian? You were unarmed and wounded. You couldn’t move, Harry. I thought…” She bit her lip, teasing it and he wished he could kiss them. “You stopped breathing, Harry. Nate wasn’t going to let you die there. I… I thought you were dead. I wanted you to live so badly. Harry, there was so much blood… I was sure that was it. I couldn’t be there much. I was afraid. I couldn’t see you die, Harry. I couldn’t watch you suffer and scream. The worst part? You were a real prick, I hated you. When you shot Nate on the train, I saw you change. You were not the same man I fell for. I hoped Lazarevic would have killed you. But not like that. Jesus, not like that…”  
Flynn winced gently, pinching his face as if physically stung. Those words hurt. As bad as it was between them, he hoped Chloe did not hate him. But she did. She did not understand why he acted the way he did. Nathan didn’t tell her about the scars he saw. Drake, maybe you’re not an idiot entirely. To hold Chloe captive with pity was never his style. Flynn knew it was for the best she was left in the dark about what happened whenever she slipped away from camp. Chloe would have brought that up first thing. As feminine as she was, tact and discretion was never her forte. He gave one of her hands a soft squeeze. “M’sorry, love. Truly,” he rasped as sincere-sounding as he could manage. The days of steady water and waking have not been kind to his voice as much as he hoped. “I tried to keep you safe. I promised you that when I got on my knee. Even though you took the ring off… I wasn’t going to change that. My feelings haven’t changed.”  
“Harry, stop,” Chloe warned, her voice suddenly sharp and scolding. “I am not a china doll to put on a shelf. I can protect myself. I don’t need you for that. I didn’t need a protector, I needed a partner. I saw how you were always putting yourself between Zoran and me. I don’t need you to save me, Harry. We ended up saving your ass and now that asshole is dead. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad it turned out that way. But Harry… I can’t be responsible for you anymore. I know we’ve been an item. And you know that’s changed.”  
“Chlo.” Flynn rarely used that pet name, and he felt her hands twitch. “I know what I did was wrong. But you don’t get it, he would have killed all of us.”  
“No, Harry, you don’t get it,” Chloe grumbled, her tone softened again. “You should have been honest with me from the start. Even when we were together, you were never here with me. Your mind is elsewhere. You don’t talk about what you dream about, you’ve been having nightmares well before we were working for Lazarevic. You close yourself off. I think it is because you’re just trying to protect me again. A marriage is a partnership, Harry. We can’t be partners if you never open up to start. I can’t be in bed with a mystery.”  
“So, you’re leaving,” Flynn stated. It was not a question, he knew the answer to it already. Chloe moved fast since the moment he met her. Never in one place for too long. It was an excuse to say it was the nature of the job, it is the nature of the person most of all. He felt like he was punched in the chest by Zoran when he lost his temper all over again. His heart was physically aching. It hurt to know they were parting ways and that the damage done could not be repaired. He always imagined himself a fixture in her life. Flynn supposed he could be loyal as well like the goody Nathan Drake. He could not imagine himself being with anyone else. “Now that you know I’m not dying.”  
There was a pause of silence, Chloe was working out an answer carefully and Flynn could feel his hand draw away out of her own. The withdrawal appeared to offend her, so she sat back straighter. “That’s not a fair way to put it, but yes. I didn’t think I’d be here this long… I have work lined up, a contract in Tunisia. I can’t change they need drivers, I can just go where the cash flow is. Harry. I can’t stay here. I can’t deal with… this. I’m leaving tomorrow at dawn. I’m sorry.”  
“Me too, love. Me too.”  
~~~````~~~  
They were never good at talking things out, Flynn was never one for open communication as it was, there were dark places his past went to he never quite recovered from. Chloe was the type that was all-or-nothing. And Harry come to accept that he could not give her what he never really had himself: trust and stability. It was hard to fully and completely devote oneself to someone if that person was never full or complete to begin with.  
Chloe stayed with him for another few hours, caring for him best she could. Not much else was said between them, there was a void where there used to be comfort in each other’s company. Flynn was in perpetual agony, but he refused to ask for relief. He had plenty of issues with pain killers and was not willing to revisit that any time soon. They did not wish each other good bye when the shifts changed, a nurse he did not know taking over. Now that his condition had improved and he was no longer in the proverbial woods, it seemed he was getting plenty of space. Nathan did not return that night. Flynn did not see anyone else he knew. He was in no mood for charm, so he often feigned sleep to avoid interaction.  
Harry Flynn did exactly that when his ex-fiancée and former lover Chloe Frazer crept into his cabin like a thief in the night at the earliest hours of the morning. He had dreaded this final parting of ways, it loomed heavy over him all night and deprived him of rest. But the thought of being awake to greet her was unbearable. He simply kept his eyes closed, his expression neutral and his breathing relaxed. His current watcher was the unknown doctor that no doubt swept him away from death’s door. It was hard to be thankful for something he wished never happened. Passing away at Shambhala or in Drake’s arms was leagues better than the heartbreak he was facing currently. He knew it was her even when the door creaked open and the howling wind outside sucked out what little warmth accumulated. She slipped to his bedside, silent for a while, watching him. A little simmer of anxiety was building, he was sure she knew he was faking it. Harry expected her to tell him to open his eyes and look at her, but she never did.  
Her touch was a balm to his pain, the lightest of feathery grazes against his forehead as she swept back loose tangles of auburn hair. It lingered only momentarily before shying away again. “I’m sorry, Harry,” Chloe whispered gently, her unique rasp thicker with emotions held tight under control. “We could have been something. But you never were one for that kind of life. Neither am I. We can’t fool ourselves thinking this is something it can’t be. Just… get well, Harry. Maybe I’ll see you around someday.” Her lips pressed on the spot where her hand had grazed against his forehead, hot breath that was once so alluring to him now just leaving him feel hollow. “Take care of yourself. Get well and strong again. And find something or someone to make you happy. You deserve some peace, mate.”  
There was a ghost of a touch on his forearm and then she was gone. After he was sure the door closed behind her and he was relatively alone with the doctor snoozing, Flynn allowed his eyes to open. He found the ring he proposed with on his pillow, beside his head. How she had gotten it again, he never asked but it was most likely in her possession as he was dying. He knew she would have kept it if he passed. A memento to mourn him. Now it was his to mourn over. Harry clutched it hard enough in his palm to break skin, but he welcomed the sting. Cursed piece of shit heirloom. Should have thrown it away years ago. Brought me nothing but grief like my mum.  
Sleeping was out of the question, each time his eyelids drifted closed, they snapped open at the images his nightmares held. Zoran’s cold, merciless eyes staring down at him. The man would never truly die, not in his head where he was haunted the most. The doctor watched him wordlessly for a time, as keen and wise as an owl. She even resembled one, with spectacles that made her eyes too big for her small head. She observed him for the morning, well after Chloe had taken her leave and left the village. He heard a truck rumble its way out of the square, one of the leftover vehicles from Zoran’s forces. As unruly as the roads were, Chloe was the best in the business. She was at home behind the wheel.  
Throughout the day, the doctor would cast judgemental glances over him, disapproval flaring her nostrils. Flynn openly ignored it all. He stopped caring. He felt numbed, the distance between Chloe and himself sorely noted and the awareness every moment carried her further away tore him. None of his other rescuers made a reappearance. Eventually, the doctor lurched up out of the seat and abruptly left the building. He pretended not to notice or care, but he was pleased for the solitude. Too damn old for babysitters. Everyone needs to piss off and leave me be.  
Flynn’s pleasure did not last. The door opened again, and he already resented the fact a visitor meant the warmth vanishes from the room with the chilling winter harassing outside. He had not bothered to shift his head to glance over, the visitor was already approaching fast. Annoyed, Flynn flicked his eyes to see it was the doctor and his mouth went dry. She was holding a syringe and a vial. He did not need to read the label to know what it was. Morphine. No.  
Adrenaline carried Flynn up out of bed before he was fully aware he was acting, lunging up off the mattress with enough momentum to send him reeling across the room. Hot, sickening waves of agony nearly made him black out, his vision greying at the edges but he refused to sink into it. Not now. He was tangled in bedding, threatening to trip him, and Flynn snarled with frustration as he flung it off himself viciously. His reaction was not expected, the doctor’s mouth falling open and bobbing, as if to speak but perhaps frightened of a negative response. Christ, she’s so short. She’s probably terrified. Normally, the guilt would have caused him to stop. But that primal fear in the poison in her grasp forbid it. Harry wobbled on his feet, a fainting spell threatening to sweep him off again to that familiar blackness. Sweat broke out across his normally bronzed skin, chilling him to the core but the reflex from pain was inevitable even in the cold. He cast a quick glance down at his own body before locking on her again, he did not dare take his eyes off her for long. Wearing pants. Thank fuck. But no shirt. The sadists. Fuckin’ freezing my bollocks off. He tried not to picture the ugly purple-black mosaic of injuries he saw under the criss-cross layers of fresh gauze now saturating with sweat. Jesus Christ. It’s so much worse. What is this even going to look like when it’s healed? A hideous fuckin’ mess, that’s what. My God, what am I going to do? Harry’s hand was stinging, he was vaguely wondering why when he saw the bloodied, discarded IV needle on the bed where his arm was laying peacefully moments before. The force of his flight yanked the needle out and tore the skin, the tape left clinging to his thumb and already soaked with fresh blood that seeped from the newest wound. His shoulders were sagging, his back hunched as he struggled to bear his own weight. The Nepalese doctor took a nervous step forward, but he only added to the distance by careening away in the opposite direction. “No… No, stay away. Keep that poisonous shit away, I don’t want it!” Harry did not know he was shouting, not even when the little owl-woman was flinching at his howls. The cabin door being practically kicked open made him clue in, the bang and rattle of the wooden door slamming open nearly causing his knees to unhinge and send him crashing to the ground.  
“Flynn, what the hell are you doing?!” A voice he did not expect boomed and Harry glowered resentfully at Victor Sullivan, Flynn then using a table for balance as he shivered. Nathan Drake came flying in at his heels mere moments later, courteous to close the door when he saw their patient up out of bed. Flynn was shaking almost violently now, his jaw stubbornly gritting down to stop his teeth from chattering. This was not the company he wanted or asked for. He did not want any visitors at all. And now his recovery room was frustratingly crowded. “Jesus Christ, what are you planning to do?” The senior man barked, his tone lowered but still clearly miffed. “Get your ass back in bed, kid. You’re going to kill yourself.”  
“Fuck off, Victor,” Harry spat, he had no intentions of budging if they were going to drug him against his will.  
“Hey!” Nathan ducked between the pair, purposely holding his empty hands out in front of himself as he approached Harry, which caused him to step back a pace. “Hey, come on, Flynn. It’s okay. You’re okay. Sully’s right, you need to get into bed.”  
Flynn was trembling as if each muscle that supported weight was beginning to collapse under the force. He knew he could not run, not with two healthy and strong men ready to tackle him if needed. Hysteria was threatening to overwhelm, glassy eyes darting from the doctor and the poison she held to the new visitors. He bit back a wild scream, fighting to keep his hands gripping the edges of the table instead of covering his eyes instinctively. No. Fuck, no, this can’t be happening. No, please, Nathan, don’t let her do it, please be the decent man I know you are. Flynn tried to block out how much a fool he looked, deathly pale and dishevelled, hair hanging loose and getting in his eyes. When Nathan was in arms-reach, Harry offered his hand meekly, his weight sagging backwards as if to lunge away if endangered. “Nate… Nate, I’ll do whatever you say, I don’t give two shits, but keep that away.” The words were spilling out of him, he was never one to beg but this was beyond his capabilities. He tried his best to keep the pleading out of his tone. “Nathan. Nate, I promise you, I will behave myself. But none of that … fuckin’ poisonous filth, yeah?”  
The little doctor appeared to have reached her limit of patient-related shenanigans today, she had already bustled past Nathan and shoved the syringe and morphine vial into Sullivan’s hands. Perplexed, he watched her leave, the same odd confusion on his aging features when he cast them to Harry again. Flynn wanted nothing more than him to leave right there with the vial and all.  
“Jesus, Flynn, it’s just a needle. I think getting shot is worse—“, Nathan started to lecture but Harry would not allow it. He couldn’t stomach it.  
His agitation was more than he could stand, Flynn withdrew his hand before Nathan could so much as graze against it. “This isn’t about fuckin’ needles, you dumb shit!” he bellowed, his voice cracking from the strain. He could see Nathan flinch a bit, but he could not help it. “I don’t give a flying fuck about needles. It’s the shit that’s in some of them that I’m fuckin’ petrified of.”  
There was a clack of glass on a hard surface, and Harry’s head whipped up to Victor Sullivan’s spot near the entrance, as if to block the patient if he bolted for the door. The eldest man had put down the vial and needle, leaving them exposed and harmless. “Fine, fine,” Sully grumbled, a cigar already pinched between his lips. Seems the doctor’s departure lifted the smoking ban temporarily. “You can suffer like a valiant turncoat you want to be. Personally, I wouldn’t mind a bit of juice in your shape.”  
“Not your fuckin’ decision,” Flynn growled but the hostility had drained from it. He always ramped up the profanity when he was upset or agitated, a rare event. It took everything in him to stop from face-planting onto the table, using his arms to prop himself up but he was ready to sink down onto it. His chest was a symphony of agony, the damp bandages and gauze making him wonder if he popped some stitches. It would not be a big shock, considering the rowdy exercise he just got. Nathan must have seen the fragile weakness, the young Drake using gentle, guiding touches along Flynn’s lower back to bring him away from the furniture towards his bed. The youngest man seemed to show a protective nature over the past week over him, and Flynn found he really did not mind it. Nathan, deep down underneath the bravado and adventurous streak and desire for danger, was a kind heart. It was his most endearing quality, but Flynn would face certain death than admit that. “Okay, okay, I’m moving,” Harry grumbled, reluctant to budge.  
Flynn’s newfound passivity eased the tension of the room, Sullivan noticeably relaxing and occupying a heavy-stuffed chair near the fireplace and set about warming the cabin. Good. Old bastard can stay over there. Flynn was never sure where the animosity began between himself and Victor Sullivan. Perhaps it was the fact Nathan and Sully were not just partners, but more of a father/son relationship. Victor was deeply committed in Nathan’s safety and wellness, he felt he had to act as a shield and as a parent often should. Maybe Sully sensed Flynn was bad news. Tainted goods. A troublemaker. Funny, we all are troublemakers. Relax, big daddy. I’m not going to corrupt your boy.  
Gentle as an intensive care nurse, Nathan had helped Harry back into the low bed, nearly collapsing if the younger man did not seize him under the arms. “There you go, pal.” The blankets Harry left scattered across the cabin were damp with perspiration, Drake grimacing with faint disgust as he hung them overhead to dry. Layers of fresh linens stacked on top of him soon enough, and Flynn was no longer quivering uncontrollably. It was hard when he had no strength to. Satisfied with his efforts, Nathan sat down beside him with a grin. “There. Snug as a bug. Give me your hand, pal. That IV needs to go back in. You’re bleeding, come on, I’ll fix it.”  
There was no point arguing, Harry wordlessly slithered his arm out from under the covers and lay it out for inspection. His caretaker made a sound of pity, peeling away the tape too bloodied to be any use. “Geez, man. Did you have to shred the skin like that? It’ll have to go in the other one, but hang on. This needs to be cleaned up.” With a huff of annoyance, Harry dragged the other arm out and waited. “Hey, not my fault. That’s your doing, smartass.”  
The warm embrace of the bed was enough to droop his eyelids heavily, Harry found himself struggling to stay awake. Nathan’s touch was soft, soothing, despite his calloused digits and rough hands. There was a brief sting of disinfectant on his torn skin that earned a hiss of discomfort from him, but otherwise he was exhausted and done with speaking. But as tired as he was, the horrid throb in his traumatized chest kept him from sinking down into blissful sleep. His breathing was weak pants for oxygen, but each inhale sent hot splinters through his lungs. All he could focus on was the pain. It was his new existence. I think I’m gonna die. I think I might die in this bed. Jesus, I’m so scared. I can’t breathe right. What will happen? It can’t get worse. But every time I think that, it fuckin’ does get worse. Without –fuckin- fail. Flynn, you’re cursed. You and your family tree. He was not sure why he thought that, he only knew one member of his family and it was more than enough. He was aware he was starting to freak out, but the near anxiety-attack earlier left him precariously teetering on the verge. A piercing poke through his other hand triggered a whine, it was involuntary on the subject of needles when he was thinking of his junkie mother.  
“Hey, buddy… Hey now, it’s okay,” Nathan hushed, massaging his palm as he secured the needle with tape. “Already done. You’re okay. I’m glad I stopped by, I was just on my way to pop in and see how you were. Sully heard the yelling first. I wanted to see if… you talked to Chloe before she left.”  
“Yeah… She made her peace,” Flynn snapped, more of annoyance with himself than with Nathan. At the mention of Chloe’s name, he felt a jolt of panic when he realized he was no longer holding the engagement ring. He must have dropped it in his flurry of raging out of bed. He grown to loathe that ring, but parting with it was impossible. It was his mother’s. If she was not a complete lying whore, he’d believe her when she said it belonged to his family for generations. Now, he wondered if she found it in a client’s house and stole it.  
The door abruptly opened and shut, Flynn shifting his head in the pillow to see they were now alone. It seems Victor Sullivan had enough of the sick room for one night, especially concerning on who the patient was. Good. Thank God for small favours. Victor-goddamn-Sullivan is still sore about Borneo. It was not a good memory, but it served its purpose now it seemed.  
“Sorry, Flynn,” Nathan apologized awkwardly, trying to smile but it was forced. “Sully’s just… Well, he’s not happy about you working for Lazarevic. Even though it doesn’t matter anymore. He’s made his feelings clear but Sully will warm up to you. He’s heard the stories of the Fall of Shambhala from three different mouths. You saved Elena’s life even when you had nothing left in you. That means something.”  
That earned a snort from the thorny patient, dismissive of an act he hardly remembered. He wanted to change the subject more than anything so he took a chance. Pointless heroics were not a trait he wanted his reputation tangled in. Nathan was rather predictable when you led him along a certain way. “Speaking of Elena”, Flynn purred suggestively, seeing the younger man freeze up. “How come she’s not keeping you company?”  
Nathan deflated a bit in his seat, a soft exhale coming out no more as a sigh. Well, shit. There’s that answer. Seems we’re both in the shit-books for love. “Because she’s keeping Chloe company until Tunisia. Some people have real jobs in the real world. Or so, she tells me. She’s taking a flight out from there to go back to America for her next article. She left this morning.”  
Flynn took that as his own signal to switch conversation topics. It was not that Drake was oblivious to relationships. The man just found it hard to commit when on the road. It was curious that Nathan did not follow her, but Harry supposed it would go against Drake’s instincts. Even though Harry Flynn betrayed him and tried to kill him from his perspective, Nathan Drake would not leave his former friend to languish alone in some forsaken village in the middle of nowhere. Not when that former friend was in such bad condition. Flynn was aware Nathan did not drop his hand yet, continuing to knead tender circles into his palm. It was nice. His weariness was draining his desire to root out new conversation. He went to clear his throat but a small cough nearly crippled him with agony. Harry’s free hand flew to his bandaged wound, cradling it as he bit down a whimper. He did not miss the younger man’s reaction. Drake’s bright eyes widened, body tense as if meaning to leap up to his feet. It earned a glare from Harry, and Nathan forced himself to relax with a bashful grin. “So, why won’t you get the juice, as Sully dubbed it?”  
“Leave it alone, Drake.”  
“Aw, come on. No one’s here. Just you and me. No one’s listening, and even if they were, they can’t speak English.” Nathan’s tone was teasing, a younger brother that found a button to press.  
“No, Nate. Just drop it.”  
“Flynn, you’re not sleeping. The pain’s keeping you awake. It’ll make you feel much better. Plus, if you tell me your secret, I’ll give you this back,” Nathan chirped, voice dripping with curiosity. Nate always was the curious sort, perhaps more than for his own good.  
Harry doubted Nathan had anything of interest, just humouring him by glancing over… and he froze to see the familiar ruby band in his friend’s grip. Mum’s ring. How did he find it? That sneaky shit. Flynn’s eyes narrowed on the piece of jewelry, shifting the glare to Nathan’s smug grin. “Gimme that,” Flynn seethed, although he was too weary and drained to swipe for it himself. Drake would have just jerked his fist away last minute, a maddening form of keep-away. “Now.”  
“Not until you spill the beans.”  
Are you fuckin’ kidding me right now? How old are you, five? His fiery temper was threatening to bubble over. “Drake, if I had a bedpan right now, you’d have a face full of piss.”  
“Good thing you don’t, then. Come on. Spill it.” The ring bobbed teasingly with each word, Nathan’s mean little joke getting old fast.  
Harry exhaled with one last huff, opening his hand in Drake’s grip to accept the ring. To his dismay, Nathan did not move, waiting. “Fine. Fine… Nate, I swear, if you utter a word of this to anyone, even Sullivan, I’ll brain you in your sleep.”  
“Cross my heart, hope to die. Hurry up, I’m getting old just sitting here.”  
Little brat. The British man sighed hard again. He was trudging up a lot of skeletons in this closet. Not even Chloe knew his hang-ups. But if anyone deserved to hear them, Nathan Drake did. Harry would have died if not for his direct actions. No one knows this, asshole. If you talk, I’ll figure out who ratted. But that’s not you. That’s not something you would do. “I don’t have any family, Nate… I did at one point, like everyone does. I only had my mum. Never knew Dad. No siblings. Mum said I was too much trouble for another. No. Would have meant she’d have another mouth to feed over her addiction. I was born hooked on drugs, Nate. My mum used while pregnant and I had to detox as a newborn baby. She ran away from home young, was a shittier situation than I had, believe it or not… So she was all I had. And I was all she had. She would never show me that, though. She used all the time. So much money wasted when I went hungry. No real job. She had to whore herself out to make ends meet. I hated her. But not as much as I hated that fuckin’ drug.” The watershed was just the start. Now that he was spilling his life’s secrets, Flynn found he could not stop. The hand that cradled his chest went to his own lips, tracing a familiar scar that he had become known by. “This one? I was five. I flushed her dope down the drain. She caught me and beat me with her belt. That was the buckle. Split my lip right in half. She’s given me a handful more, but those are not easy to find. When I was seven, I was done. I had enough of getting the shit kicked out of me every miserable day. I ran away from home that night… found out it was not as great as I thought.” That memory, Flynn would keep to himself. His brief experience on the streets before he found a similar group of kids was deeply traumatizing. He still had nightmares up before new ones replaced it. “I went back home the next night to find her beaten to death on the floor of our kitchen. Bad john. Or dealer. Or fuck if I know, I never found out who did it. That ring was her’s. She said it was my grandmum’s, and it was in our family for a long time. I doubt it. But I like to think that. Now, the ring. Please, Nate, don’t make me beg.”  
Fuck, I knew it was coming. Here it comes. Nathan’s plucky goofiness vanished over the duration of the story, the childish playfulness swept away with the dark narrative. Flynn could feel the younger man start to shake, a small tremor in his arm that did not translate to the rest of him. Drake was not from a whole family which was clear on how they both mutually avoided the subject. His attachment to Sullivan was evidence of abandonment in the past. Drake had the beaten puppy look on his face again. He hated that look when it was on his expense. Without another snide remark or juvenile added steps to his game, Nathan pressed the ring into Harry’s palm and guided the hand gently shut around it, easing it back onto the covers as if made of priceless crystal. Flynn’s eyes never left his face. He wanted to see everything, every clue and hint of the thoughts behind those blue-green depths. I hope he doesn’t think less of me. He would sometimes try so hard to impress me all those jobs in the past. The great Harry Flynn. The bastard offspring of a junkie street whore. The man that can’t keep a woman that loved him. Or is that even true? How could Chloe love me? My own mum didn’t even love me. The words felt almost dull, when they should have cut deeper than steel. He had been telling himself that as long as he could remember.  
For an undetermined amount of time, Flynn watched Nathan move automatically in silence, smoothing out the blankets, tweaking little folds here and there. He knew it was Drake’s nervous habit. He was a fidget. Flynn also knew he was buying time, trying to choose the right words when he was able to find them. When he finally said anything, Nathan sat back in his seat, his voice very small and restrained. “I had no idea, Flynn… I’m sorry.”  
“That’s the entire point of a secret, mate. It’s so no one does.”  
“So… Chloe, she never knew anything about—“  
Exasperated, Flynn could feel his patience waning. He was so tired but his body refused to let him rest. His emotions were on a rollercoaster of his nightmares, divulging the dirtiest secrets he had long hidden from everyone. Hysterics were edging into his breathing, he could feel the desire to sob hitching at the rhythm. His eyes were burning, but he was afraid blinking too much would encourage the flow of tears. But he could not bear to look at Nathan anymore, turning his face away. “No, Nate… No. Chloe doesn’t know any of that. She doesn’t know where the ring was from. She doesn’t know when I wake her up from my fuckin’ nightmares, it’s not from being in the military or black Ops or anything exciting but my shitty childhood. She doesn’t know Lazarevic would… would fuckin’ nearly flay me every time she skipped out of camp. He put a gun in my mouth, Nate. No, she doesn’t have a fuckin’ clue. Because if she knew, she would have left ages ago.” She wants someone strong to trust in. She could smell the weakness on me. I know it. They all do now. They all see something broken to fix. Flynn’s throat was aching, but more than the strain he was putting on his voice. He could fight the desire to cry as long as he could. As much as he loathed to show that level of vulnerability, Flynn was thankful Victor had left. He doubted it would have come to this if he lingered, but the thought of Sullivan being in there to eavesdrop made him feel sick. The fact Victor saw him unconscious and at death’s door was an uncomfortable reality enough. “It doesn’t matter anymore… She’s gone. She’s done with me.”  
“I’m still here, pal. Flynn. Hey, come on, look at me.” When Harry refused, Nathan only sighed. “Listen, none of that matters to me, okay? I had no clue how bad it was. Hindsight being 20/20, I totally get it. You don’t have to explain that. Chloe, she… does what she does. You know that. I’m not even a bit mad anymore, buddy. I was gonna make you pay me back somehow, but seeing what he did to you, I know why you did it. I’m sorry for being dense and not seeing that.”  
Here we go with his hero complex again. “Enough apologizing, mate. You’ve done nothing wrong,” Flynn groaned, the thought of Nathan feeling guilty for something Harry did was ludicrous. “So we’re both assholes and we’re over it. I just want… to forget it, yeah?”  
“Makes two of us. Let’s start over. Pretend that crap never happened.”  
Flynn could only manage a weak attempt at a bitter chuckle, it rattled in his chest and became a harsh, dry cough. “Right… I wish that were true.” His eyes were still burning, like the ring in his grasp. If only that were true, mate. But you still remember it. You still know I’m a junkie whore’s bastard son. You still wince when you stand up and favour the spot where you were shot. And Chloe’s still gone. Very gradually, Harry rolled onto his good side, facing the wall. It was a painful, slow process but the end result of his curled fetal position felt deeply satisfying after spending a week flat on his back. The thought of being forced to look back into those pitying, sad eyes after that experience was … what? Too real? Too visceral? Flynn never told anyone his past before, even though that was simply a fraction of it. He wished to disappear, to somehow sneak his way out like a shadow. Shame weighed heavy like a physical smog. Why is he still here? He keeps looking to the door like he wants to leave. Why doesn’t he? Harry dragged his arms up to tuck in front of him, cradling his mother’s ring to his brutalized chest. It was a familiar hard outline in his palm, he often slept that way when he was young after his mother passed. He never knew why he did it. It was just soothing somehow. A security blanket, maybe.  
Flynn felt the mattress dip further under new additional weight and he almost lurched away, a Pavlovian response he learned after decades. But Nathan’s strong, warm palm went to Flynn’s shoulder, pressing him back down firmly. “Hey, relax, it’s me,” a voice whispered gently into his ear, hot breath disturbing his hair. Frozen and stiff, Flynn simply waited until the younger man settled against his back, a little nervous to feel a broad arm snake up to tuck over around him in a steady embrace.  
“You act like we never shared a bed before,” Nathan teased coyly, adding a good-natured but soft squeeze that did not hurt his injuries. Drake was always conscious of everyone’s aches and bruises when he went to touch them.  
Flynn rolled his eyes, even though no one saw the exasperation. “We never spooned before. Besides, you’d make a better little spoon.” A couple previous jobs together, yes, they did share a bed. Not all the rooms have two beds as they often found out, not even a couch to crash on. They would claim opposite ends of the mattress and not dare cross over ‘no man’s land’. Of course, they’d flirt and tease and joke but nothing ever would happen. Harry was not even entirely sure Drake swung that way, not even the secret bi-curious occasion. His journals adorned with entire pages devoted to women’s phone numbers and their cities of address, only women.  
“Aha, cute. No, this suits me just fine.”  
Of course it does, you git. How the hell do you expect me to sleep now, Nurse Drake? Harry tried not to communicate his discomfort with the situation, his body stubbornly paralyzed in place. Even when Nathan tried to snuggle closer, Flynn’s position was unyielding. It was a small bed, much smaller than anything they’d tried to mutually lay in. Drake’s hips lined up with his own, squirming enough for himself to fit together like two strange puzzle-pieces, his legs fitting in place between his. Normally, he’d complain quite loudly and adamant he be the big spoon. He hated feeling like the vulnerable one. But he was too tired to bicker. “Just keep your morning-wood to yourself, yeah?” Flynn warned, although not without a bit of a smirk.  
Drake laughed with a bit of a nasally snort, snuffling into the back of Harry’s shoulder. American straight men could often be so prudish with male cuddling and whatnot, but Nathan did not seem to have the same barriers. Maybe it was simply the circumstances they found themselves there, winter in Nepal and caring for a grievously wounded friend. “Can’t make any guarantees.”  
“Lovely.”  
Flynn was anxious. While Nathan was predictable at times, there were others where he completely blew up the box instead of thinking inside it. And Flynn had no idea what to make of his intentions in this latest move. Instinctually, rooted in the deepest flaws of his psyche, Flynn wanted to thrash free and retreat. The breath on his back of his neck was freaking him out more than it should after all these years. When he was very young, his mother brought clients into their home. Sometimes, when she was shooting up or high or not in parenting-mode, her clients snuck into his room… For some of those sick fucks, there was no difference between an adult woman and a small boy. Jesus Christ. Isn’t that a trip? Drake would never fuckin’ do that. Not to me, not like that. But why the fuck am I so scared of him right now? Flynn, get a hold of yourself.  
“Hey, Flynn,” Nathan cooed softly, one hand gently sliding up the expanse of his bruised spine and back down in exploratory but patient massage. “Hey… it’s okay. You’re shaking, pal. Relax. You’re safe. You’re gonna be okay, buddy. You’re going to heal up and be back to beating my ass climbing to the top of towers. Listen. I know you’re going through a tough time. We all have tough times, Flynn. Your’s is just really drawn out and shitty.”  
Lovely pep-talk, mate. Can sell a book with that title, make the national best sellers. Flynn would have said it if his throat was not threatening to close, biting back a sob. He closed his eyes and tucked his balled hands to his face, fighting tears and not wishing to shed them.  
“You’re a helluva lot tougher than you think you are, buddy,” Drake continued murmuring into Flynn’s shoulder, not ceasing the soothing back rub. “Lazarabitch tried to kill you, twice. You’re still here and he isn’t. You won. You’re going to be healthy again and he’s still dead. You hear me? You might be a bit more banged up, but you’re still Harry fucking Flynn. Chloe might have left, but I’m still here for you, pal. I’m not leaving until you’re ready to go back home. It might take some time, but hey, we’re in for a long winter. I’m going to look after you, Flynn. You’re going to be fine. You’re going to be back to the way you were, prowling beach bars, right before all this mess. I’m not going anywhere.”  
Why? Why are you doing this? Why do you keep sticking around? I’m not you, Drake. People don’t want me, they use me and toss me aside as second-choice. I’m not even close to being the same thing as you. I’m disgusting. Harry Flynn’s swagger, his promiscuous flirtations, his charm and ego, it was all a carefully composed mask he crafted over the years. It was an image he yearned for, so he emulated it best he could. But no matter how he tried to further himself, he was not truly associated with big-name scores and likewise. Nathan Drake was a well-known and even notorious name among their circles. Nathan seemed to have people consistently drawn to him, either working with him like Sullivan or the numerous troublemakers that were sniffing around for big-league thieves. Flynn wondered if he was the opposite effect on people, driving them away instead of attracting them regardless of his almost desperation flirtations. Deeply embittered, Harry clutched the ring tighter as he thought about what it stood for. He hated that little piece of jewelry, but it was inherently attached to him. Like his own mother. Flynn could not even remember her face, what she looked like. He could only remember fear when she started screaming at him. This is your fault, mum. All of it. I hope you know that, where ever they threw you. You set me up for this. And gave me this… fuckin cursed ring. Why did you? Why didn’t you huck this for cash and shoot that up in your arm? Would have saved me a lot of trouble. Hell, maybe if you gave a solid shit about your only son, I wouldn’t be here at all. Why even bother having a son if you never wanted one? Did you even want kids? Was I such a disappointment? Scalding tears began to trail down his nose and Harry pawed them away hastily. A sob was hitching at his chest, but he swallowed hard to fight it back down. Please, not again… Get it together, mate, come on. Suck it up. This is nothing you haven’t known before. You can’t lose it in front of Drake. Can’t, understand?  
The firm, kneading rub along his back paused, as Nathan appeared to take notice finally. “Harry? Oh, shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was hurting you, I forgot about those marks—“  
Flynn snorted again, or tried to. His traitor lungs hitched with the exhale and it became a single, unmistakable sob. He squeezed his eyes shut again, mentally kicking himself for even daring to utter a sound at all when he was barely holding himself together. Fuck. There I go. Jesus, Nate, why did you want to know all this shit about me? No one else needed to know that, most people I’ve met certainly don’t care to ask. You nosey shit. Flynn swallowed, hard. He had to clear whatever emotional obstruction that stole his voice. When he spoke, it took a lot to try and keep his tone leveled and unassuming. “You’re not hurting me.”  
“Oh.” Nathan did not move immediately, his hand still flat against Harry’s spine, as if feeling for the rhythm of his lungs there and the gentle drum of his pulse. Gradually, the calloused, abrasive touch worked firm circles into his shoulder, as if trying to ease the tension there Harry naturally housed. The massage went on, like he was trying to wring the sobs right from the weakened man. After several minutes, Drake’s fingers began glide across the bruises on Flynn’s throat, outlining monstrous digits that outsized his own. “Is it about your mom?”  
“Jesus Christ, Nate.”  
“I’m sorry, but I’m asking. Flynn. Is that why you’re upset?” Nathan’s voice so hushed against his shoulder, lips moving into his skin. “It’s okay if it is.”  
The weak hitching of his restrained sobs became more insistent. Flynn could not fight it anymore. He was beyond exhausted, he reached the end of his limits. Bringing his clenched fists to his face, he bit on his fingers to restrain a whimper. The tears were streaming now, no amount of scrubbing at his sore features would change that. No it’s not, Drake. It’s the furthest thing from okay there is.  
“Hey, it’s okay, Flynn…” the younger man continued to whisper, returning to his back rub as before. It was a purposeful soothing gesture, trying to coax the tension from his spine. “Hey now, relax. It’s okay. Listen, you’re okay now. I’m so sorry, Harry. I had no idea you went through all of that. But you know what, you are here and what you are because of it. You’re that smug son of a bitch I like to tag along with, until you left me in that museum. Up until prison, I had a lot of fun that night. You’re one hell of a laugh when you’ve got a beer in hand. You’ve got the quickest lock-pick skills I’ve seen. You’ve been a guy I can depend on before Lazarevic. Harry, your mother sounded like a terrible person, but I don’t think she wanted to be. Drugs turn people into somebody else. You’ve never known her without that, you don’t know what she would have been like clean. But none of it is your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. You were just trying to survive. Nothing that happened to you back then is your fault, Flynn. None of it. I don’t care what she said to you, what she done to you, what she made you think about yourself, none of it is your fault. And I don’t care how much of a prick you’ve become, Lazarevic didn’t need to … to butcher you like that. That wasn’t your fault neither. You just focus on getting better. Okay? You don’t need to worry about a thing. I’ll take care of you.”  
Perhaps it was Nathan Drake’s kindness and insistence on being close combined with Harry Flynn’s deep-seated craving for affection and the thin veneer of his ego fractured and in scattered pieces. Perhaps it was also the fact the previous close friends had been forced to test the limit of that relationship, the fact that both had their own life-and-death struggle that possibly scarred them both emotionally. Flynn’s weak hiccups of sobs were trailing into steady keening whimpers under his breath. The anxiety he had before at the uncomfortable intimacy was gone, it melted away with the tension in his muscles. He had not dared to touch Drake. But he was okay with being held. Just this once.  
~~~```~~~  
Harry Flynn never actually fell asleep, not what anyone could call decent, restful sleep anyway. He never dreamed, which made him certain he never really allowed himself to sink deep enough to benefit from it. He hated the fact that he cried long and hard in Nathan’s embrace, but all the while tucked up into himself and refusing to touch the other man. He sobbed until he shook, until his throat ached so badly, he physically could not keep it up anymore. Even then, the tears still ran, his breath hitching until he felt dehydrated to the point of another splitting migraine. Nathan never moved, he hugged Flynn against his chest protectively until he was sure he stopped weeping. Flynn stopped only because he had to, not because he felt any better. He heard people say they feel loads better after a cry. Harry never felt shittier, or more pathetic.  
Drake’s arm had slid down to rest at Flynn’s hip, but only because he had fallen asleep after the last of the hiccups had tapered off into nothing. The dark rings around the younger man’s eyes meant he was still not getting his nightly hours of mandatory bedtime, Flynn noticed they had not even faded a bit since he joined the land of the living again. When Drake’s breathing transitioned to snuffling snores, Flynn peered over his battered shoulder. Nathan’s expression would almost be called blissful if his features were not splotched with healing bruises and marks from a slugging match with a Serbian warlord. It was easier to take in little details like this, without those clear, readable eyes staring back. Like those copper-coloured long eyelashes that fluttered and twitched with his eye movement. The sparse smattering of scars that littered his handsome, youthful face, it both distinguished him and yet did not mar his features. The beginnings of lines etched into his skin, years of battling the elements and their line of work. Chapped lips he wondered what felt like against his own. Jesus, Flynn, get a hold of yourself. A few weeks without private time with Chloe and you’re turning into a basket-case. A horny basket-case. Sullivan would not approve of you forcing yourself on his kid. Scowling, Flynn turned his face back towards the wall, more disgusted with himself for entertaining the thought. Had Nathan ever so much as thought about it? Flynn would rather have another grenade in hand than so much as ask Drake. Too damn embarrassing.  
Flynn lay in his fetal position, shoulders rounded and tucked into Drake’s chest, listening to the soft snores into his back. There was no clock in the room, and when Harry instinctively glanced to his wrist for his watch, he found it was gone. Seriously? What the hell. Why did they feel the need to strip everything off me? There was a deep pang of annoyance in Flynn’s belly, frowning in his resentment. It was an oddly naked and violated feeling, to find yourself undressed of your clothing and general daily accessories like jewelry or a watch. He understood perfectly why, but it did not change that knee-jerk, reflexive shame. As stiff and sore as he was, he dared not move. Even though Harry could not squeeze in some ‘z’s, Drake definitely needed it. He knew Nathan’s habits from the past, he knew Drake could sleep through a typhoon… until someone touched him.  
The missing watch made him unsure just how much time passed. Flynn’s back was sore and aching, missing Nathan’s kneading massage. He wanted to stretch out again and sprawl out, but Drake was still peacefully snoring at his shoulder. He was struggling with the internal debate of his own pain-wracked body and the younger man’s desperate need for sleep before Nathan stirred subtly and the snores abruptly ceasing. Flynn froze, his breath caught in his throat. And before he knew it, both arms snaked around his waist and Flynn found himself nearly launched onto his face from overtop Nathan’s body as he rolled over. Drake got uncomfortable enough to move while still snoozing, but Harry did not appreciate nearly suffocating as his nose and mouth mashed into the mattress and struggling to right himself. What the fuck?! What am I, a fuckin’ teddy bear? Get off me, you oaf, before you rupture my stitches. Finally, Flynn twisted his throbbing neck to suck in a breath, finding himself pressed onto his stomach with Drake nestled into his back again. Disgruntled, Harry would have yelped out complaints if the snoring had not immediately resumed, instead squirming enough to rest more comfortably on his stomach rather than being nearly crushed under Nathan. How the hell does anyone else share a bed with this shit? He’s a serial cuddler and he likes to move. As if to confirm his suspicions, Nathan snuggled down tighter onto him, tucking him close under his chest. The pressure on his bullet wound was deeply painful, bringing a cold sweat to his skin already. Stubbornly, Flynn only bit down on the bedding to fight down a groan, trying to lift his quivering shoulder an inch off the mattress. If I wake him up, I’ll never get rid of him, then. He’ll have a fit. Fuck, it hurts. I have to get him off my shoulder. Drake, you’re going to kill me with kindness, and not in the fun way.  
Inch by agonizing inch, Flynn managed to wiggle out his way from under Drake’s sleeping body, slick with sweat and quivering. He felt dizzy, but he was sure that was just from the struggling. Freed at last, he was left curled on his opposite side, directly on top of his bad shoulder that took the bullet. Flynn found he had no strength to move off it, but he could not find it in himself to even care despite the radiating pain. Fuck it. Let it fester and kill me. Maybe I’d get some fuckin’ sleep.  
“Goddammit, kid, if you were that tired, you should have gotten into your own bed.”  
Are you fuckin’ kidding me right now? Victor, go tug off that cigar elsewhere.  
Harry Flynn had just opened his eyes again to see the aging treasure-hunter before him from his sideways-view in bed. Victor Sullivan either ditched the putridly-hideous floral shirts entirely or is simply wearing them underneath his fur-lined parka with greyed undyed wool. The wolf’s fur lining the hood and sleeves in great tufts matched the bland colouring. Grey on grey with Sullivan’s silver mane made him look like a big-ass bear. Flynn, have you ever seen a bear? No. And for good reason. Bright colours and warmth here do not go hand-in-hand. It seems Victor did not forsake his military training all these years later, Harry had not heard the door open or hear his footsteps across the wood flooring. When Victor met his eyes, the old man frowned, clearly not pleased with his findings. “And what are you doing awake, Flynn? I thought you would have been out hours ago.”  
Flynn snorted, he was too exhausted to do much else. He could not even get up off his bad shoulder. “Take a wild guess,” he only sullenly grumbled.  
Sully scowled. “Alright, I’ll get rid of your bed bug. Hold on.” Sullivan came over to the bed, directly over Harry but he did not mind it for once. Probably the closest he ever allowed Sullivan near him, unless he had a gun on him. The smell of tobacco was strong in his nostrils, a new and familiar smell lulling him into relaxing despite the persistent throb of his shoulder. “Hey, Nate. Wake up.” Sully’s hand grabbed at Nathan’s shoulder and gave him a mild jostling shake, and that was all it took. Nathan’s eyes snapped open, almost immediately sitting up.  
“Sully? What’s up, is it Flynn? Wait. Flynn is… right here,” Nathan trailed off, his brow furrowed like he was perplexed Harry was in his room, in his bed. The younger man glanced about, seeing the medical equipment set up, then the tucked, curled patient beside him. “Well, shit. I guess I was pretty tired.”  
“Yeah, enough to steal a patient’s bed,” Sully snapped, although it was the glint of amusement in his eyes that stunted the scolding. “Nate, go to bed. Your own bed. Leave poor Harry alone for a while.”  
“Right… Sorry, Flynn, must have just closed my eyes for a second.” Still relatively dazed and drowsy, Nathan slowly clambered up out of the bed without disrupting Harry’s position. Rubbing his eyes with a yawn, Drake went to the door and vanished out into the winter night. Sullivan watched him go, before removing his parka with a tired grunt. To Harry’s disbelief, Sully was indeed wearing a damn Hawaiian shirt, a blinding red with obnoxious blooming flowers.  
“Flynn, you’re going to make that worse,” Sully scolded in that same tone, it was enough to make Harry’s blood boil. Who are you, my dad? Piss off. I can’t move. When Flynn did not show any indication of moving, he was surprised when Sullivan gently guided him onto his back, off the aching, swollen shoulder.  
“Ow, fuck!” Flynn yelped, pitch raised from the sudden flood of excruciating agony that networked through his entire upper body. His arms clenched taut, hands squeezed to tight fists, breathing through another spasm as his muscles adjusted. Sully, you touch me again, I swear you’ll be needing fuckin’ dentures before long if you don’t already have them you old fuck. Flynn was too weary and breathless for threats. He was not sure it was possible, but it apparently was. With a vindictive glare, Flynn only managed to stare up at Victor Sullivan, the one man he clashed with frequently in Nathan Drake’s social circles.  
“Sorry, kid. I know it hurts. But you’re the stubborn one that doesn’t want any drugs. That is probably a good thing, means you can handle it. Now get some sleep. You need it.”  
~~~````~~~  
Flynn’s nightmares were getting worse. Even when he was able to give in, sink down into a deeper sleep when the agony lessened to tolerable pain, he would be awake soon by the way his subconscious played things out. He was beyond simply exhausted. He was running on fumes. Flynn could not remember the last time he was awake this long without restful, real, honest-to-goodness sleep. It might have been the time he experimentally dabbled in cocaine at a party in his early twenties, something he would never touch again. The dark circles under his eyes were resembling bruises, or so Nathan told him. A week had passed, and he maybe gotten 10 hours out of the entire stretch. He was thankful all he had to do was lay there and focus on recovery, the thought of actually functioning with so little rest was not possible. Climbing or traversing a 60 foot wall would be suicide. Flynn was sure he could not even get up and walk if someone paid him to.  
Nathan was becoming a constant fixture at his bedside, like the damn IV bag or bed pan. It was pretty humiliating overall, to have your former friend/ rival/ maybe-wee-crush nurse you back to health from near-death. Every waking minute, it felt like Drake was telling him to go to sleep. Frustration was a constant factor, always simmering in his stomach and ready for him to snap. And when he was not lecturing, he was fussing over Harry’s bandages and wounds. Feeling Nathan’s warm touch gently caressing at his wrist and forearm, partially supported by plush stacks of pillows, Flynn’s eyes drifted shut and he was done with fighting the inevitable drive for sleep.  
A droning hum carried up Harry Flynn’s legs as he stood, boots braced at shoulder-width to stop the drunken staggering of the train’s sway and twists made him want to do. Harry’s face was stinging, cheek alight with the impact of an open-hand slap by Chloe Frazer minutes before. He knew it was well earned. Flynn had roughly shoved her aside while firing at Drake, the most aggressive he had ever been to her, he knew he would regret it the moment he done it. The ring he proposed with, his mother’s ring, was now in his jeans’ pocket and still warm from Chloe’s finger. Most the train had blown, and Lazarevic ordered half his remaining forces to round back to the smoldering remains and pick about for Drake’s body and the dagger.  
“Mr. Flynn,” that familiar Serbian-accented growl vibrated in Flynn’s chest, the towering man just behind him as he evaluated that most of the carriage had exploded and rattled uselessly behind the chugging engine and remaining train. Oh God, no. Not now. “It seemed your friend Drake had made another mess of my plans. You lost what is mine, again. Go to my private cabin. You will be briefed, and you better pray to whatever god you hold dear we find what has been lost.”  
Heavy footsteps prowled away, off to the private carriage near the front of the train where Lazarevic claimed as his own for the journey. It was no different from the others, only that it was stocked full of what remaining artefacts they had and few provisions. Flynn could feel eyes on him, the few members that remained onboard all watching him for his reaction. They knew all too well what waited, they’ll hear him screaming soon enough if the howl of the wind did not consume it. Flynn did not dignify them with cowering or slinking away like a kicked mongrel, he straightened his leather jacket and strolled back to the main brick of the train with a nonchalant idle smirk. Internally, he felt like he was shitting his pants and he was going to have a heart attack. Oh Christ. Oh, I really don’t want to go. Come on, please, don’t, just fuckin’ jump off the train.  
The soldiers parted for him when they had been blocking his way moments before. Icy blizzard-gales swept through the train cars, chilling him to the core. The journey through the remaining carriages and box carts was a blur. All Flynn could hear was his own jack-rabbit heartbeat hammering away in his ears. Flynn’s ribs were still aching and tender from the last assault, he hated thinking about what waited.  
Zoran’s cabin was the only carriage with the shutters all drawn tight, the doors closed, one of Lazarevic’s upper command standing guard on the roof. He regarded Flynn with black goggles and the impersonal protection of bulletproof gear, not acknowledging him directly other than a subtle turn of the head. Harry opened the door, not bothering to knock. Zoran was never one for delays of any sort. Even the door closing behind him, it was still so very cold, the Nepal winds blasting through the aging train despite measures to insulate. Two lanterns standing on either side of the crude table Zoran almost always had set up at his camps, for his reading materials and related iconography. Exactly as before, reading some photocopies of the journals they managed to secure, looming over the table.  
“Mr. Flynn,” Zoran spat, like the name itself had grown to be disgusting in his mouth. “Explain to me how we lost not only my second-in-command, the dagger, half of my train and supplies, a tank, a helicopter, and an anti-aircraft gun but you are still unscathed.”  
Oh my God. Zoran, I swear, I didn’t know he was on the fuckin train until it blew!  
“Luck, maybe?” he heard his own voice retort, unable to bite his tongue not matter how much he fought to move his jaw and do it.  
“Another joke. I hired a comedian instead of a professional.” The tone never changed, never wavered as Zoran strode to his charge. Flynn could feel his entire body want to contract, he wanted to run as fast as his feet could carry him out.  
“No, wait, Zoran, I—“  
Lazarevic did not wind back or recoil his limb before he struck, adding to the surprise but not lacking in power. Zoran’s fist swung up like an anvil, cracking another rib as it collided with Harry’s torso in the middle of his right side. The padding of winter clothing did little for protection. Harry sunk to his knees, spluttering for air and nearly vomiting onto the floor as he used both hands to stop himself from folding. He could not breathe, the off-hand, restrained blow was enough to nearly cripple him.  
“Take off your clothes, traitor”, Zoran seethed, his rage causing him to grit his jaw.  
No. God, no. Zoran, please, it’s so cold, I can’t take it.  
“Zoran…” Flynn heard himself pant between raking coughs. “Zoran, please…”  
“I had enough of your mewling and begging. It is all you have ever given me. I will not tell you again.”  
Vision fracturing from the tears glazing his eyes, Flynn felt his hands move against their will. He shrugged the jacket off weakly, ribcage aching, the shirt following in a hurried heap. When his grip faltered on the belt keeping his jeans up on his hips, there was a warning glare from the warlord towering above him, not so much as a word uttered. The jeans went down fast after that look, kicking them off with a frustrated, vicious flick of his leg. There was a predatory gleam in those eyes now, one that terrified Flynn and made him feel like a child again, cowering before the boogeyman.  
“You heal fast, Mr. Flynn. Not fast enough.”  
Flynn tried to tuck his body up around itself, arms going to shield his head when he saw it coming. The military-issue boot lashed out like one would punt a football, only it were Flynn’s bruised, quivering limbs taking the beating. Blows rained down furiously, catching Harry’s battered legs, his tender hips, his gored back, his aching arms. But never his head. No, Zoran would not kill him. Not while he still had use. He wheezed out cries and yelps, unable to find words in the panic of the beating. Finally, he waited after what seemed like an eternity, when the kicks finally stopped, but Flynn still shielded himself. His whole body was a raging inferno of pain despite how cold he felt, fingers and toes blue and numb. He was finally able to breathe, lungs burning, but each time he tried to make a sound, he could only sob.  
“You disappoint me time and time again, Mr. Flynn. I grow weary of these mistakes and excuses. May this will be another lesson learned.”  
Zoran, oh fuck, please no more. I can’t take this. Just kill me. Kill me, please, get it over with.  
“No, Zoran…” he heard himself gasp for breath, shaking his head. “No more.”  
“Bite your tongue, traitor. Present yourself.”  
Icy fingers of terror slid down his spine, that simple two-word command an order he come to know well and dread all the same. Zoran made him learn it from Borneo, actually going as far as to position the naked, submitting man himself like a doll or a prop instead of a terrified human being. Flynn wanted to die. He wished Zoran just shot him in the skull before any of this started. His body moved on auto-pilot, much to his dismay and horror. Without another spoken word, Flynn painfully rolled onto his stomach, not daring to look back at the warlord for approval. His thighs slid open, trembling and bearing clear marks from other ‘lessons’. Terrified, Flynn kept his head up off the ground, teeth chattering from the biting cold.  
Mindless fear amplified to unimaginable heights when he felt a gloved hand on the back of his neck, shoving his face into the floor before he even heard Zoran move. An unintelligible yell of anger, pain, and fright left him as he went to throw himself upright but already a much heavier weight than his own smothered him. Zoran only sitting on his thighs was enough to cease his struggling, the desperate thrashing and scrambling he always instinctively resolved for. “Please, Zoran, get off me…” Flynn heard himself almost sob, bile bitter in the back of his throat when rough fingers thumbed at his healing ass-cheek still scabbing his initials.  
“One more word, Mr. Flynn. One more word, you lose your tongue. Please, do give me a reason.”  
No. Oh Lord, no. One massive hand encircled the front of his throat, holding Flynn hostage in place like a living collar. He knew where the other hand was, the unbuckling and unzipping ringing in his ears without needing to turn his head. Biting into his own lip, Flynn closed his eyes and tried not to focus on that homicidal grip that toyed with him at his neck by pinching and squeezing, choking him to the point of nearly blacking out. When that position proved to be inconvenient, the other commanding snare went to Flynn’s hipbone and yanked them up off the floor to line up their hips. Fuck, no, please, kill me, snap my neck, kill me now, just make it quick.  
“FLYNN!” Nathan bellowed out, actually shaking Flynn by the front of his neck, instead of the battered, bandaged shoulders that were heaving with night-terrors. Harry Flynn had startled into the waking world in Nathan’s grip, blurry eyes flashing about before fixing up at the one touching him. At first, Flynn nearly kicked out his legs and flung himself off the bed, Nathan’s warm hand still holding the ghost of Lazarevic’s possessive grip on his throat before he was raped into the floor. Nathan saw the delusional terror, knew Flynn had been elsewhere in his mind and woke very confused and frightened. Flynn’s own bandaged fingers were caught in Nathan’s shirt, mindlessly clawing with no real intent. “Flynn! Hey! Jesus, Harry? Hey, it’s me.”  
As Nathan’s words and voice began to sink into his sleep-deprived mind, Flynn’s ferocious writhing and squirming tapered down and stopped, green eyes clearing at recognizing Drake. Even when Nathan’s hand did not move off the front of his throat, pinning him in place, Flynn’s breathing was not impaired by the pressure. The daze was lifting out of Harry’s stare like the mist dissipating after a sunny morning, still panting feverishly and clammy with perspiration. Finally, the British man reacted to Nathan directly, instead out of a dream-delirium. Flynn’s damp grasp slid down to Drake’s fingers laced across his neck, then to the wrist and clinging to Drake’s arm. He was very reluctant to let go. “Don’t scare me like that,” Flynn rasped, dearly thirsty and needing a cool drink.  
“Scare you? Jesus, buddy, you nearly gave me a heart attack. You were asleep, and next thing I know, you’re nearly sitting up and screaming.” Nathan chuckled gently, but it was forced as there was nothing truly funny about the situation. With a deep sigh, Drake’s hands scrubbed at his weary face, clearing his own eyes. “Seriously, Flynn. What am I going to do with you? You need sleep.”  
Flynn offered no argument, no snide remarks. He was simply relieved to be back in his bed, out of the torment of the past. Nathan’s gentle, kind grip was sorely mistaken for something much more horrific as his mind interpreted. Harry did not say much else. He found himself at a loss for words for once.  
~~~````~~~

“Drake! Get off me! NOW!” Flynn roared despite the coarseness of his voice. “Get off! Sullivan, you even dare, I swear—“  
“You’ll what?” Victor asked, grinning despite the possible sadism of the situation. In his hand, he held a syringe, thrust upon him by the doctor at their request and her demand. “C’mon Flynn, enlighten me.”  
“Sully, don’t make it worse!” Nathan pleaded, shouting above Harry’s wrathful bellows. “Just hurry up!”  
Ten minutes before, the cabin was almost calm, no different than any other recovery day since Flynn first regained consciousness. Harry had abandoned his attempts to doze after the last nightmare, refusing to let his eyelids drift closed for no more than an extended blink for about 12 hours. Nathan had faithfully maintained his bedside vigil, sometimes with a book, sometimes napping, sometimes just sketching in his journal. Victor came to pop in for random intervals… but he was reaching the end of his rope with Flynn’s insomnia. The former navy man knew the signs of sleep deprivation, most likely had experienced it himself at some point in his life because shortly after he disappeared to speak to the doctor. Flynn did not listen to the conversation between the three, it seemed they did not want him to hear and discussed it outside. But before long, the narrative had changed. Harry Flynn was by no means stupid. He could tell when the game had a shift of rules. Nathan had a guilty cringe that spoke volumes. Victor was smirking. Before Harry could even move, Nathan helped sit him up and slid in behind him, seating the weakened man between his legs. Flynn tensed violently, had tried to throw himself up out of reach, but Nathan was fucking fast.  
Flynn thought he had no strength to fight after all the weeks of trials and tribulations and sleep deprivation. That proved untrue. He thrashed and writhed and bucked in Nathan’s vice-grip, arms wrapped around him in a forbidding embrace, legs knotted down over his own to stop him kicking. That did not stopping him from trying with all his fucking might when he saw that syringe in Sullivan’s grip.  
“Drake, I’m fuckin’ warning you, let me go or you’ll regret it, mate,” Flynn snarled hoarsely, flexing every worthwhile muscle in his body to snap out of Nathan’s hold. To his dismay and adding fuel to his rage, Nathan only snickered.  
“Buddy, you’re strong, I’ll give you that,” Drake panted with a laugh, tightening his whole body-snare entrapment that made Flynn only howl out with inconsolable anger. “But, Flynn, you need sleep. It’s been almost two weeks. You’re going to get worse, pal. I’m not going to let you get sick. Not again.”  
That’s it, you little shit. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.  
Flynn’s skull rocketed into Nathan’s face as hard as he could muster within himself, lashing out with every inch of rage he had flowing in his veins and aiming for the nose. He missed, only barely, mashing into Drake’s cheekbone and eye instead. Flynn had to admit, he wished he felt a satisfying crunch in there but he doubted he could break Nathan’s thick head as he’s had tougher blows.  
“Ow, shit!” Nathan yelped out, arching his neck backwards to dodge another strike. Not that Harry did not go for another one. The second lunge only just bopped off his nose, something hot and wet running down the back of Harry’s neck that was most likely Drake’s blood. “Dammit! Sully, hurry up!”  
“Flynn, would you settle down?” Sully barked, clearly agitated with seeing Nathan’s blood already flowing for a good deed. “Hey, knock it off! This isn’t a painkiller, kid. It’s something to help you sleep. Come on, it’ll be over quick.”  
You think I give a shit? I don’t care if it’s from the Holy Grail itself. Flynn was physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted, his head hanging down with harsh panting heaving his chest. Oily auburn locks hung in front of his eyes, he had to glare through them at Sullivan. “Try me, you old shit. Let’s see what you got,” Flynn hissed with malice, giving his spine another powerful arch in Nathan’s protesting grip.  
“Flynn, please, give it a chance,” Nathan reasoned softly, trying to soothe the older man writhing in his hold. His voice was fogged, like his bloody nose was giving him trouble. “You won’t get sick. You won’t dream. It’ll be just good, healthy sleep.”  
Flynn’s eyes closed, still panting heavily and holding relatively still as he tried to gather some strength. Sleep did sound lovely right about now. Yeah, of course it does, you’ll be in your mum’s footsteps before long. Already a whore, might as well be a junkie too, right? Because soon enough, you’ll be on that shit all the time to get any sleep. You’ll be struttin’ corners and turning tricks just like dear ol’ mum, maybe finding a cozy little spot right behind a dumpster to ---  
A jabbing prick into his exposed upper thigh jerked him brutally from his train of self-loathing thought, Flynn’s eyes snapping open to see Sullivan grinning at him, swaying the now emptied syringe in a teasing waggle. “Oh, you miserable old shit!” Flynn screamed viciously, struggles renewed with the realization it was already too late. Nathan was giggling into his shoulder nervously, not quite sure what else to do while they waited for the tranquilizer to take effect.  
“Relax, buddy”, Nathan breathed into his clammy shoulder again, his voice a soft lullaby in his ear as Flynn felt suddenly, without any desire of his own, very tired and ready to sleep. His strength drained from him faster than it did on the day he was shot at Shambhala, mere seconds rendering him slack and lethargic. Time was slowing, but Flynn did not mind. He felt very warm now, eyelids creeping down no matter how he fought to keep them open. “Relax. I promise, you’ll feel so much better when you’re awake again. Like a brand new man. It’s okay, Flynn. Close your eyes. I got you.”  
Alright, Nate. I trust you. I hope that means something to you, because it means everything to me. Flynn’s descent into his dreamless slumber went without a fight, surrendering at last. Drake’s presence against him was his rock, his anchor to a safer place.  
~~~````~~~  
Flynn had no idea how much time had passed. There were no dreams, like he was promised, or at least nothing he could immediately recall. But if there was one thing he come to know, it was not to trust Victor Sullivan.  
Victor Sullivan pulled a fast one on Harry, because when he finally woke up, a slow and much sedated awakening, he realized soon enough there was more to it than being a simple tranquilizer in that shot to the thigh. Flynn could not immediately move, frozen in Nathan’s embrace again, like he had when he first drifted off. His head hung limply forward, groggy as he became aware of a deep humming against his back and gentle words murmuring into his ear. He felt no pain yet, but Harry knew it would inevitably be waiting for him like a shadow in the sun. Movement came uncoordinated, his arms twitching baselessly at his sides. His body felt numbed. Flynn did not mind that after months of hell. He felt rather comfortable… but something was nagging at him. Grunting to test his vocal capacity, Flynn tried lifting his head but found his neck lacked the stamina to keep it up for more than a few moments.  
“Hey there, pal,” Nathan crooned at his shoulder, relief softening his tone. Harry wondered what the big friggin’ deal was if he had been only asleep for a few hours. “Hey, easy. Relax, Flynn, I got you. Jesus, you’re freezing. There we go, you’re coming out of it now.”  
…What are you talking about, Nathan? I can’t even lift my goddamn head. What the fuck did you do to me? I trusted you, mate. Don’t make me regret it. Flynn groaned softly, trying to lift his arm to touch his sore throat, so fucking dry yet again, but his stupid arm was not working the way it should. “Th…. Th’fuck you’d d’to me?” Harry could only cough out, wincing at the ache. His speech was slurred, lips refusing to shape the way they flawlessly should.  
“Hey, whoa, easy. Take it easy, Flynn. You been out a while, okay? I know, I know, déjà vu. But try not to be too pissed with us. The doctor called a specialist in for the doctor-without-borders program. You were already out, so we went ahead with it.” Flynn felt a stab of dread at the violation, already knowing he owed Nathan a good ass-kicking later, but the younger man continued. “You needed another surgery, okay? Nothing serious, the bullet wound was just abscessed and needed some serious cleaning. The new doctor also put you in a medically induced coma for your body to rest. You just weren’t healing, buddy. It did the trick, you’re a lot better now. No more fevers, the stitches are already out. Your ribs are still busted to hell, it’ll take time for those. Don’t worry. I insisted that you won’t be medicated beyond necessity. No addictive side-effects, you should recover just fine. They decided to warm you up today and bring you out of it. It’s been… shit, nine days, ten… twelve days. Yeah, twelve. We wanted to make sure you’ll be out of the woods before we brought you out. I won’t lie, you scared me, buddy. It’s pretty freaky seeing you on a ventilator, not moving at all like that. If it wasn’t for the monitor and the doctors, I would have thought you were dead. It was… pretty tough. I looked after you best I could, but when you’re awake, it’s just easier. At least I know you’re still here with me. I didn’t think it would take this long for you to come out of it. Really scary shit. The doctors are never worried, but… hell, I worry.”  
A fuckin’ coma. Sullivan, you rat bastard. I’ll make sure to put some of Cutter’s special herb in your fuckin’ cigars, you old shit. Maybe slip laxatives into your coffee when I’m able to get my arse out of this bloody bed. Inside, Harry was raging and indignant, utterly pissed that he was simply a voiceless lump in the bed to a bunch of ‘medical professionals’. He was mostly pissed it was all initiated by Victor Sullivan’s sneaky injection. All despite him adamantly fighting against it. It was a betrayal of the largest sense, but hey, everyone was doing that lately.  
“…Water, please,” Flynn hissed out, wincing.  
It took a while for Harry Flynn to get full control of his faculties and not feeling any delays or intoxication, about a solid day itself. Way longer than he liked, but now when he slept, nightmares did not haunt him every instant he dreamed. The previous intolerable agony of his injuries had reduced noticeably so, the healing advanced to let it recede to a dull ache. It was one of the few blessings from the latest shit-show. Sullivan never visited once, a wise decision. Harry would have a few choice words to say. If there was one factor that worsened, it was the cold.  
Flynn hated the cold, but the Nepalese winter was beyond his limitations. The recovery cabin, as it had been dubbed, always had a fire burning in the fireplace, waging a losing battle against the numbing chill. Even now, tucked under enough layers to struggle to move, he could see his breath exude in frosty mists. The people of the village were unperturbed, it was simply another winter to them. Nathan, as always, had hardly been bothered, not compared to his older counterpart Sullivan. Much to Harry’s dismay, his cabin was getting crowded again. Nathan become a permanent fixture unless sleeping in his own bed, in which Sully took over. But almost always, he now had his own spot near the stonework fireplace in the recovery cabin as well, bitching about the cold as much as Flynn felt about it. There was no need for his own voice to join the complaint list, he was still too tired. Finally, when Victor took one of his many smoke breaks out in the harsh biting wind, Flynn seized Nathan’s wrist with urgency.  
Nathan’s eyes were immediately questioning, blue-green locked on his gaze and openly displaying concern and compassion. The worn, crudely-sharpened pencil was still in his grip from his journaling. “Hey, pal, whassamatter?”  
Harry Flynn had enough of freezing his arse off. He had enough of it since Lazarevic’s train barreled headlong up the mountainside to their destination. His voice was still hoarse from the breathing tube that was in place, an unfortunate consequence of the comatose state he had been in. That did not mask the demand in his tone. “You have to get me out of here.”  
“Whoa, Flynn, not such a good idea, you shouldn’t be outside right now—“  
Now why the fuck would I want to go out there? I don’t want to, I just need out of this frozen wasteland. Please, Drake. “Nate, listen to me,” Harry snarled, knowing he was wasting time with arguing. He had a better chance of convincing Sullivan to fly them out if Nathan proposed it. “Shut your mug for a minute. I meant out of this place. Out of Nepal. I can’t take it, mate. Not anymore. Might have had a shot before Zoran got to me, but right now, I feel like an ice-block. I don’t want to die here, Drake. Get me the fuck out of here. I don’t give a shit if it’s a cheap hole in the wall, as long as it’s somewhere warm.”  
That stubborn glint in Nathan’s eye flickered briefly, before Harry mentioned his desire to avoid passing in the cold. It was a cruel statement, but he had to. Flynn felt he was not built for this kind of weather, even in the most biological, basic sense. He had never experienced real snow after his childhood. Once he had the opportunity to never be cold again, he seized it and never let go. Until Shambhala, that was. He told Nathan this before, he was sure he had. Flynn hated repeating himself.  
Finally, Nathan sighed heavily, as if torn by the idea. But Harry knew this younger man pretty well. He could see Drake was irritated with the chill by now, and Sullivan’s constant criticisms were weighing on him. “Okay, okay… Flynn, I didn’t want to fly you out in this shape. You can’t walk for more than a few steps. You’re still pretty frail, pal. You lost quite a bit of weight, I can tell. But you’re right. It might do you good, better than here anyway. I’ll run it by Sully. Might take some convincing, he doesn’t like flying in this sort of weather.”  
Apparently, convincing Sully was much easier than expected, but other than the timing Flynn would not have known that. Victor had no joy for the cold, as much as Flynn had. It took a couple days for preparations, fuelling up, checking over the plane and defrosting the needed components, way longer than Flynn hoped. Patience was never his strongest quality, however, crashing and burning in some unknown mountainside was not desirable of an outcome. Two days of shivering and dreaming of warm beaches and a gentle rolling ocean. Two days of hating the food provided, barely nibbling some of the reduced portions. But finally, the day came. He could hear the plane engines roar to life earlier, just out of the village gates, there was no other place to fit a full-sized aquatic-capable plane like Sullivan’s. That meant Drake would have to carry him to the plane. There were other options, the Nepalese ranger named Tenzin offered a cart fashioned of wood used to pull hay, but Nathan insisted otherwise, to Harry’s mild surprise. When Harry raised his eyebrows questioningly at the younger man volunteering to be his pack-horse, Nathan only shook his head with a grin.  
“Don’t worry about it, pal. It’ll be faster this way and you won’t be as cold,” Nathan reasoned calmly, gathering and packing medical supplies for their journey and enough to last them for a time longer. Nathan disappeared for about an hour, packing up the plane and saying his goodbyes before making his way back to the recovery cabin. Nathan’s hair and eyebrows were dusted with snow, piled on his shoulders, signalling a bit of a snowstorm, but not the full-blown blizzard they had been dealing with on and off for weeks. The blood was high on his cheeks, flushing his face from the chill, but it did not stop Nathan Drake from grinning like a child despite the cold. He loved the thought of travel more than anything, the younger man had wanderlust in him from the start and spending weeks in one spot must have given him the itch.  
“Alright, buddy, time to get going. You ready?” Drake’s voice was high in spirits, a cheery little spring in his step that Harry had not seen in a while. A thick wool blanket was scooped into his arms, ready to wrap his patient in it.  
Ready since Lazarevic brought be to this fuckin place. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” Harry grunted wearily, using his wiry arms to push himself up into a seated position. He had only just managed to do that himself after the coma, the healing coming well enough. He had tried making tiny paces around the room, but the cold would rob him of any desire to leave bed. They had taken him off the IV an hour before, the only constant fixture since first regaining consciousness in the recovery cabin. It left patchy black-purple bruises over the top of his hands where the punctures were, bandaged to get the ebb of bleeding to stop. “Come on, hurry up, mate,” Flynn grumbled, shuddering when the covers dropped away from his upper body. He still did not wear a shirt, the healing wounds still needed steady access to bandage-cleaning. Even tucking his arms against himself to keep warm did little to comfort. “I can’t take this damn cold anymore.”  
That brought a laugh to Nathan, taking the opportunity to help Flynn ease up off the bed to adequately wrap him with the blanket. Flynn rather hated being catered to like this, loathed being treated like a fragile child, but he had spent too much time fighting for his life. He did not want to aggravate any recovery. Even with Drake’s support, Flynn wobbled as his knees almost buckled under him, but Nathan sunk down quick to catch him under the arms and help him up. “Easy, buddy, easy. We’ll be on our way soon enough. Sully’s ready for us to head out, plotted a course for Mexico. How does Cancun sound?”  
Flynn had to admit, it sounded absolutely incredible. It was the beach he loved the most, once passing out on the sandy shore with a bottle of tequila and burning himself raw in the sun. Those were good days. Restraining his own mirrored grin to a dulled one-sided curl of a smirk, Flynn felt the blanket tighten around him, draped over his shoulders and up over his head, hanging like a hood. Nathan spent his time fussing, making sure no part of Flynn would be exposed to the icy blast of snow other than his face and even that was reluctant. Finally, Nathan gathered Harry up into the bundle, one arm under both legs, the other supporting his shoulders across his back, bouncing him once to secure his grip better. Flynn only made a stifled growl, the jolt sending a shock to his ribs. “Watch it, mate!” Flynn snapped, one of his arms looped around Drake’s broad neck and shoulders to supplement being held. “You drop me, I’ll kick your sorry ass into next week.”  
“You complain more when you’re awake,” Nathan simply stated, using the table to prop Harry onto to straighten out the fold of blanket over his head and cover him better from the lashing snow. “Seriously. Carried you all the way from Shambhala’s gates to the monastery and didn’t drop you then. It was the girls that dropped you, and it wasn’t their fault, they got attacked. Besides, you were heavier then. You’ve lost weight.”  
“Shame you didn’t,” Flynn retorted, his temper fouled with being manhandled. He was not even sure why he blurted out the insult, it was a knee-jerk lashing he did not mean. Frankly, if anything, he was glad for Nathan’s bulkier build, no matter how subtle it was between them. Nathan was heavier enough to disrupt whatever ancient or recent climbing platform they used together, the clumsiest of the pair. If there was a time for Drake to be stronger, now was it.  
“Now, I know you don’t mean that. You’re a pissy thing when you’re mad. Alright, ready? It’s gonna be cold, but I’ll go as fast as I can without dropping you. Just don’t squirm, okay?” Nathan smiled down at him, so gentle and kind-hearted, Harry would have felt his heart melt if it were not a chunk of ice in his chest.  
“Just hurry it up,” Flynn sighed, hunching down into the folds of the blanket. “Sooner we get on the plane, the better…”  
Opening the door to the cabin robbed the breath from Harry’s lungs, the wind so bitter he could not inhale for a moment. The blast of snow and sleet was instantaneous, stinging at Flynn’s exposed skin through the wool blanket like nothing. Holy bloody fuck, was it always this cold? Drake, get me out of this hell, now. Move your fat fuckin’ ass. Flynn only twisted in Nathan’s embrace, clinging to his front and pressing his exposed face tight into his caretaker’s chest. Even though Nathan only shambled three steps into the winter realm of snow and ice, Harry was deliriously cold, whole body quaking violently. His feet and hands were numbing already, digits stinging viciously as the capillaries shrunk and drew blood up into his extremities. Fuck, this hurts. Who told me freezing to death was painless? I’m gonna hunt him down and murder him.  
“Whoa, easy, buddy. I know, it sucks out here. I hate it too. Hold on, I’ll go as quick as I can without slipping.” Nathan’s voice vibrated against his ear from deep in the man’s chest, soaking in as much of the warmth he gave off. Flynn did not respond, did not trust himself to speak, he was sure he could not find a real breath out in this frozen hell. He felt dizzy, only tightening his grip onto Drake’s shoulders.  
Oddly enough, despite the feet of snow that lashed the mountainside over the weeks, there were elaborate tunnels dug through the village, the sky still visible but Flynn wondered if more snow could change that. Nathan traversed these pathways as if he roamed this place many times, and perhaps he had. The damage of Lazarevic’s rampage was still evident in that many cabins and homes were ruins, destroyed and unable to be rebuilt so soon. Harry tried to ignore the part he played in that destruction, not without a queasy lurch of guilt deep in his gut. The villagers stood a distance away, watching him, Drake smiling and nodding to each in his own friendliness. But Flynn knew the reason why they did not come closer was because of him, one of the men responsible for the slaughter of countless members of their friends, families, neighbours. Another reason why I can’t stay. I won’t let them care for me, not anymore. I did this.  
The humming of the plane engines droned louder with each twist in the labyrinth of snow tunnels, until they reached the gates. Harry was grateful for the thunderous roar now, as Nathan hustled his pace to the plane now cleared of snow and a runway. The storm was lashing at his exposed skin cruelly enough to feel like razors, gritting his teeth as Drake paused outside the closed doors of the plane for Sullivan to open the overhang for them. Nathan ducked his head to pop in, ensuring that Harry did not bonk off the walls or doorframe. Finally, the door rattled shut and they were out of the snow, Harry allowed himself to inhale shakily. To Flynn’s surprise, Drake tightened his grip, looking down at him with concern and brushing melting snow off his face. “There, wasn’t so bad, was it? Pretty chilly, though. Hey, pal. You alright? You were struggling in breathing out there.”  
Flynn found himself scowling, craning his head away from the touch. “Piss off, Drake,” Harry growled hoarsely, not enjoying on being babied to like that when he can damn well scrub his own face.  
“Ah, there’s that ray of sunshine we all missed!” Sullivan’s voice drifted from the cockpit, although Harry could not see him, he could already picture that smug grin with a cigar poised between his lips. He had to shout over the engine’s roar that drowned out all else. “Settle in, boys! If we’re going to beat the storm, we have to go!”  
The plane was an odds-and-ends mixture of comfy and practical, a home built to fly. Instead of seats, many were ripped out and replaced with couches bolted into the floor, seatbelts fashioned into the frame. There were bunks in the back, where Harry first recalled waking on being rescued. Nathan had already plunked them both down on one of the couches closest to the cockpit, within clear view of Sullivan’s position much to Harry’s contempt. The inside of the plane was warm, actually toasty compared to the icy blast of blizzard outside. Nathan already appeared comfortable, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it to the floor before settling backwards into the couch with Harry pressed at his side. Flynn had to purposefully move himself off his lap, needing his own space on the sofa. Sorry, Nate. In no mood to give you a chubby, it would be wasted. Not that Harry did not entertain the idea… But with Sullivan within sightlines, it was an immediate mood-kill despite the uplift in spirits he felt now that he was warming up and looking forward to sun. I think getting frisky is not on the agenda yet, can’t even stand up on my own. Maybe some sun-kissed bodies out there are looking for a dashing… scarred, morally conflicted asshole like myself. The change in his own image would take adjusting to. He was used to his handsome face being relatively unmarred, his body only having a few smattering of scars before. Lazarevic changed everything for him, even his potential love-life. Jesus. I have his initials on my ass. How the hell am I going to look at that every fuckin’ day? How is anyone else going to see that and not have questions? I have questions about it. Zoran never mutilated his men like that, why did he carve his name into me?  
Harry’s head had lulled down against Nathan’s shoulder, no longer able to support himself. The desperate clinging to Drake’s body through the blizzard sapped what little strength he had yet again, despite the improvements he made his stamina was still pathetic. Anxious about his own body-image, Flynn cast a glance down at his bared chest. It was worse than he thought.  
Before his contract with Zoran Lazarevic, Harry prided himself in his appearance, Nathan was bold enough to comment on his ego on the past. He did work out to maintain his physique, although it was minimal because climbing and scaling buildings of itself was an exercise. His time at the beach perusing about left him nicely tanned, he groomed his facial hair to his trademark tuft under his bottom lip and spent time fussing over his hair. Now, those days have passed dramatically by what he saw. His body frame was much wirier than he remembered, wickedly thin where there should be toned, corded muscle, his ribs and breastbone visible under the wraps of gauze. His sunny complexion had paled to a sickly tone that resembled curdled milk, but speckled with ugly dark bruises. His loose jeans were barely hanging on his bony hips, held in his place by a belt he did not recognize. To his surprise, the ring, his mother’s ring, was looped around the necklace he usually had at his throat. Nathan must have placed it there while he was unconscious, for safe-keeping. Harry’s chest was relatively unmarred by slash marks, it was one of the few places Zoran spared. Only because his chest was usually pressed into the floor while the torture was taking place. His pants were hiding the most disturbing damage, like the bandages over the gory pit where he had been shot. The wound itself had changed, he noticed, no longer a neat bloody hole like it had been on Shambhala. It caved the tissue underneath from the trauma, the debriding and removal of abscessed flesh causing more of a crater than anything. It was hard to look at, even harder to imagine what it would look like healed. The muscles had atrophied around the site, his weeks of inactivity evident after a lifestyle of high-maintenance, making that particular spot look frail and abused. They packed the crater with gauze before he left, something Drake promised to maintain despite his grimace of queasy disgust. Holy shit. If I had a mirror, I don’t think I’d recognize myself. Probably a hideous wretch staring back. How am I going to live without looking at a damn mirror again? How could I? The reflection would be so much fuckin’ worse. Seeing what he did to me. No, I can’t. I don’t even want to see what it looks like under my jeans. I don’t care if it has been weeks since he’s touched me, I still feel the bastard. He’s broken me, more than I already was, if that was possible. I’m never going to be the same. Harry Flynn is not the same man as he was on that beach, Nathan. I hope you know that.  
Nathan seemed to read his thoughts, glancing over to him and seeing Harry’s conflicted eyes roaming over his own damaged, recovering body. Harry tried to avoid meeting his eyes, but they were almost magnetic to his own. Shame loomed heavy on him, Flynn knew shame could be read easily on any human being, it almost had a smell. The way Nathan encircled an arm around his shoulders and huddled him closer, rubbing at his bared limbs to warm him told him his shame was on display. “Hey, pal. Don’t worry about it. You’ll be okay. I know it looks bad, but you’re actually doing loads better. You were close to death, Flynn. No one comes back from that looking like normal. Tell you what, I bet you’d kill for a shower or a bath. I know you’d smell better at least,” Nathan teased, that annoying little brother trait coming out to play.  
“Makes two of us,” Flynn grumbled, not impressed with someone pointing out the fact that bathing has been impossible this far north other than sponges. He had not been submerged in water since Borneo, when he would sneak off to the many rivers and waterfalls to cool down. “Git your armpit out my face, Nate. You can kill a horse.”  
Nathan grinned again, playfully shoving at Flynn’s opposite shoulder, the uninjured one. “Yeah, yeah. We both need a bath. Not at the same time, but you know what I mean.”  
A bath sounded nice, Flynn had to admit it. Hot water, soap, a fluffy fucking towel? All of it. Little luxuries were sorely missed after months in hell.  
~~~````~~~  
Harry Flynn, a man that generally disliked flying, actually fallen asleep huddled into Drake’s side, slumping when sitting up straight proved too uncomfortable. When he finally woke up, he was laying down on his side, head resting in Drake’s lap. Normally, he would play the flirt before finding an excuse to retreat, but Nathan had been fast asleep as well. I had better pillows. This one is rather tough when it should be soft. The steady warmth Nathan gave off was enough of an incentive. Sullivan’s plane was warm enough, but spending months of his life in winter clothing and freezing his ass off took a toll. How long the flight was, Flynn was not sure. It was late evening by the time they landed, taking space at a privately-owned airport near the beachside so they could sort out a plan. Although the sun had set, Flynn still felt gratefully toasty in his wool blanket as Nathan carried him out of the plane and into the back seat of a jeep, bundled along with some basic luggage.  
Sullivan drove, despite Nathan nearly begging for the keys, to a cheap motel along the main strip of Cancun. Like Harry had hypothesized, it was dirt cheap, all one floor with simple deck-chairs set before every door like one of the exclusive luxuries was simply the view of the beach. It was a bad one, mostly blocked by tourist trap bars and set-up restaurants. Way too many eyes for Harry’s tastes at this point in time, painfully aware how changed he was. I loved this place once. I thought I still would. It just seems so shallow now. The thought of strutting around in swim-trunks hitting pubs horrified him, if he were to go about what he done before. His body had been irrevocably altered, one category he could not display without that deep shame. Flynn would have relished in glances his way, soaking it all in, maybe shooting off a wink or two before. Now, when curious eyes looked over to the invalid bundle in a heavy-looking wool blanket, Harry wished he were invisible. He sunk down further, trying to hide in the folds of material that defied the climate.  
It seemed Sully did not trust his plane to be left unmolested, muttering about previous experiences in Mexico before he headed back to the airstrip. He dropped off Nathan and Harry at a single-bed room, again to Harry’s deep disappointment. The room was too small for a second double bed anyway, and it was more space than they had previously in Nepal. It had a television set older than he was tucked in a cabinet, a bible in the nightstand with a box of condoms as an odd and blasphemous pairing, but most importantly, it had a functioning bathroom with plumbing. The bathroom was at least clean, equipped with a bathtub, sink and vanity, the toilet in the back corner, and Harry felt a pang of anxiety to see a mirror over the sink, angled to not glimpse his reflection just yet. He would have to walk inside and stand before it to even catch a view. Nathan had actually painstakingly arranged the bathroom for Harry’s own access for a private bath, a little effort that Flynn appreciated but kept to himself. The bathtub had bottles of shampoo and soap and lotion set up already on the shelf, a towel waiting for him on the counter across from the tub.  
Convincing Nathan he needed the privacy to bathe himself was a chore of its own but it was well worth it. The door was securely closed, but unlocked as compromise between them as Drake insisted Harry was still too weak to be alone. The thought of Nathan, as close as they were, seeing him naked in his state was daunting. Flynn had never truly evaluated the damage himself in private, with a mirror to bear all truths objectively and cast them as reality. To be alone and seeing it all was scary. The thought of Drake being there with witness it made him want to puke. Yeah, that’ll be good. Having your savior/ rival/ crush seeing your full-blown mental breakdown when you see yourself in a mirror, that’ll be fun. A real laugh riot.  
Purposefully not looking at the mirror, keeping his gaze fixed purely on the bathtub, Harry numbly worked the faucets and waited for hot water to fill the basin. Steam billowed up off the pool, bubbling as it poured, an action he watched pointlessly sitting on the wall of the tub other than to put off the inevitable. He supposed he had to finally get it over with. Peeling most the gauze off his upper chest, Flynn grimaced as he tossed it all aside into the garbage, discoloured with pus and blood. It was only the bullet-crater that needed to be constantly wrapped, so he left it alone, too grossed out to even curiously investigate. Slowly, with greater reluctance than being ordered to undress by his boss, Flynn wiggled the jeans off, too exhausted to even step out of them. He held his breath as they slid down.  
Jesus Christ, mother of God. These are my legs? Zoran, I hope you’re burning with a pitchfork in your ass. To his verified horror, Flynn’s upper thighs were remarkably thinner than he remembered, having dropped muscle tone and fat percentage due to months of stress and near-death weeks prior. Pale, pink, zig-zagging lines of fresh scar-tissue lined his quaking inner-legs, some were sickeningly close to his groin. Other healing incisions were still scabbed, but nothing was still sore and needing bandages. The tattoo he got when he was a teenager on his right thigh was crudely butchered, Zoran had tried scraping it off with his knife. It had been a shamrock, something stupid he gotten while drunk on St. Paddy’s Day in the village. The ghost of Zoran’s massive, brutal hands were outlined on Harry’s thighs, knees and ankles, ringing both like disturbing shackles. They were fading green and yellow and dull purples, not the ugly black marks that covered his legs before his coma that bruised to the bone. He was healed up a lot better than he first dreaded, but it did not change the reality of how he obtained them. That did not change the disgust he felt with himself.  
Alright, sweetheart. Time to face the music. Get your arse up and see the damage. Get it over with. Going to the sink, Harry swallowed hard and brought both palms down to the vanity, anchoring himself before he dared lifting his head to look in the mirror before him. Jaysus Murphy Christ, is that me? Is this what they saw when they looked at me? When Chloe looked at me?  
Flynn’s haunting eyes are what caught his attention, the green stare he remembered from his childhood now somehow different. There used to be a lazy sort of confidence there, but now it was distrust and fear and so much weariness. Thousand Yard Stare. From the textbooks about the Great War when I was a kid. Flynn never thought he’d see that expression on his own face, not even with his shitty childhood. There was a meek sadness where there used to be smug contentment. His usually well-groomed appearance was a photograph in his head he kept trying to compare to the sad thing he saw now. His shaggy auburn hair previously combed back other than the stray lock that always fell forward was now a disordered mess, chilling him to see the scant few silvery hairs mingling close against his scalp from the top. Those are new. I guess the years are catching up with me. He was surprised to see his nose was still straight, unbroken, he thought Zoran would have thought of utterly destroying his ‘pretty face’, as his boss mockingly called it. A few days of stubble grew on his neck, cheeks and chin, itching him and making him look older and gaunter. To his dismay, some of those hairs were grey as well. His face was as pale as the rest of him, making the dark rings that lingered around his disturbed eyes more ghoulish. New scars scattered his features, over the bridge of his nose, splitting his lip over again, a long deep one on his forehead, one on his left cheek. Wincing, Flynn craned his neck and touched the bruises that ringed his throat. His beaded necklace hung loosely underneath, his mother’s ring looped and resting on his sternum. All and all, not that bad. Worse than before. Better than I thought. Not winning any modeling competitions in the future. Hell, not sure what job waits my future. Think this means retirement, mate. Accept it now. Move on.  
Numbly, Flynn turned away from the mirror, but not before glancing over his shoulder to evaluate the more grisly evidence. It was automatic, he did not want to but knew he had to look, to see. What he saw made him stop and stare, losing his breath for an amount of time he simply did not know.  
Oh my God. I’m going to puke. I’m going to faint. I’m going to faint and puke. Harry’s knees wobbled, clutching for the vanity again to stop from collapsing as a wave of dizziness and nausea threatened to send him toppling into the filling tub. He never saw his wounds from this angle using a mirror, to see the evidence, all of it, for himself. Flynn’s pale, once toned back was now eerily thin and criss-crossed with layers and grids of crude carvings made into his flesh long healing, skin peeling from flaking scabs and pink new tissue. They were no design in particular, Zoran just liked to cut and watch him writhe and scream. His thighs were the same, more or less striping his once tanned skin. But the worst detail, the one that personalized it all with a big fuckin’ cherry on top was the jagged initials gored into his left ass-cheek, a capital ‘Z.L’. Seeing those gruesome letters brought hot stinging tears to his eyes, adding to his forlorn new look. The initials were healing well, the skin not gracefully curved and flawless anymore but split with scarring and scabs that dimpled his ass. Shit. Bloody fuckin’ shit. What am I going to do? He’s marked me. For fuckin’ life. He won’t let me forget, not ever. At least, when I was young, they didn’t leave their fuckin’ names on me. Staring at it made him feel sick. Unable to stand it anymore, Flynn’s knees unhinged and sent him lunging onto the tub-wall for a seat, knocking the orderly arranged bottles into the water and off the porcelain with a deafening thud.  
“Flynn?!” Nathan’s voice shot up, hearing like that of a bat when he was focused. “Hey, you okay? You fall?”  
Jesus, Nathan, fuck off. Leave me alone, let me hide away. Harry knew he had to say something, to stop Drake from barging in like a bull in a china shop. Not now. Can’t let him see me now. Oh my God, how can anyone see me ever again? The tears fell in fat drops, biting hard into his tongue enough to taste the tangy coppery of blood. Say something, you moron. Now. Flynn tried. His throat worked, the words on his lips, but only a choked sob came out. His arms cradled himself, withdrawn and hugging tight for comfort and finding absolutely none. He felt miserable, repulsive, lonely, all a confusing maelstrom that made it hard to breathe. I wish I was dead. I wish that bullet hit my fuckin’ heart.  
Despite Nathan’s promises, he was never one to listen to people if his gut told him otherwise. The bathroom door creaked open hesitantly, half of Drake’s face coming into view, drawn to the sound although instincts told him to leave. Flynn would not look at him, could not. Not when all the evidence was there, out in the open, unhindered by clothes or bandages or blood. All the bruises, the humiliating scars, all the tangible weakness his body seemed to portray, all on display. Harry just sat, hugging himself, fighting back sobs and failing fantastically. “Jesus, Flynn,” Nathan’s voice barely whispered above the sounds of grief as he slowly shuffled into the bathroom, not wanting to startle the other man. For Flynn, it was easier to concentrate on the water steaming at his ankles, his feet already submerged. It burned, scalding his skin and reddening them like lobsters boiling. But he did not budge. It did not hurt as bad as he felt. Being beaten with a belt never hurt as much as this, the delayed onset of disfiguring trauma.  
“Hey, hey buddy…” Drake murmured softly, gently drawing Flynn’s legs up out of the water that was clearly too hot for his comfort. Flynn did not dare look at the man’s face, he refused. The tears kept flowing, the dam had burst, the worst of the reality sinking in after weeks of recovery. Flynn could not trust a single word to escape him now, it would be a complete breakdown of sobs and screaming, he could feel it clutching at his vocal cords. “Flynn, hey… You’re okay now, buddy,” Nathan persisted, not sure how to touch a traumatized survivor such as this but cautiously enfolding the older man in an embrace after relenting to his instinct to hold and soothe. “It’s over. All of it. No one is going to hurt you again. You’ll be okay. Jesus, I had no idea it was this bad. No idea, Flynn, and I’m so sorry. I know you’re sick of hearing this, but I would have taken you out of there if I knew. Christ, man… I… I have no idea how you were able to hide all this from us. From Chloe. From me. You were suffering, Flynn. Nothing you did was your fault. Jesus, your tattoo…” Nathan’s voice trailed off, Harry felt him shaking against him. “… I saw what he done to your ass a few weeks ago. You were unconscious. I… felt sick, Harry. Sully helped with some of the bandages, he saw too… We both know, you don’t have to hide anymore. You never used to hide away like this, Harry. Never. I didn’t think you were shakable. But, I guess everyone is. Takes some maturing, realizing that…”  
Flynn swallowed his sobs back, refusing to let anymore out. He was done with crying in front of Nathan, he was not weak or a victim or a fragile broken imposter. He cried enough in front of Lazarevic, too. The tears still stubbornly leaked down his gaunt cheeks, streaming steadily. Being wrapped up in Nathan’s arms like this often frustrated him, but now it was a welcome distraction from how disgusting he felt. How shameful he felt. Nate. You dumb kid. I was already on shaky ground. I hid in plain sight. You think you know what I been through. You don’t have a clue.  
“Hey, come on. Let’s get you in the tub, alright?” Nathan turned on the cold water tap, to make the scalding water a tolerable temperature. “I’ll give you a hand. You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before, we’re both guys. You look like you’re ready for another nap anyway, don’t want you to pass out and drown in here.”  
Wouldn’t that be a relief. No, mate, I’m not that lucky. Flynn did not respond, he locked himself down as he often did when facing a situation he would rather not be in. Harry once heard it was a common reaction to trauma, to distance oneself and withdraw. It was hard to classify being comforted by a close friend as traumatic, but Harry honestly had never been able to let go of all those secrets, those dirty incidents that haunted him. Being vulnerable and naked and unable to hide the ugly truth was new. Why is he still helping me? What does he want with me? I have nothing left to give. Zoran took everything I might have had left.  
“There we go, much cooler. Not going to boil you alive. Come on, let’s get you in,” Nathan chided softly after he turned off the taps, gently and carefully guiding Flynn up into the tub before sitting him down submerged. Those aquamarine eyes lingered on the bands of bruises on Harry’s thighs and ankles, a wince noticeable on his youthful face. “Hey, not too bad, right? Do you need a hand, buddy?”  
Harry did not move, did not speak, he simply sat in the water and tried to ignore the awful stinging of some of the fresher wounds being introduced to the moisture. Now with the steam clearing his sinuses, his sense of smell had improved, much to his disgust and self-loathing. He could smell himself, a sickly sort of odor that clung to his skin and unlike his usual spicy scent, as well as other hints of other odors. He could smell his own blood, still smeared into his skin for weeks of lacking proper bathing, coppery and slowly leeching into the clear, untainted water from his submerged body. And there was something he was sure was an illusion, a sensation lurking in his head with no basis in reality. I think I’m going to be sick. I can smell Zoran on me. Jesus, I can smell him on my hair, on my skin. He left his mark, alright. He’s not really dead, he lives on through me. There was an uncomfortable ache from sitting on the bare porcelain, his ass hurt from both the previous repeated rapes and the crude craving. It brought another repulsive reminder that made him physically shudder. I could still feel him inside me. Oh Jesus. I could still feel it when he finished. He always finished inside me, the fuckin’ bastard. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.  
“… Flynn? Are you okay?” Nathan finally asked, not sure if he would receive an answer.  
“No, Nate,” Flynn whined under his breath, his voice barely a whisper. Any louder, he might end up sobbing again. His gaze was glued to the taps, having not shifted since he sat down. “I’m not okay. Far from okay. So fuckin’ far from okay, it’s on the other side of the fuckin’ map.”  
Nathan’s hand on his shoulder squeezed gently, an affirmation for his feelings. “It’s okay not to be okay. There’s nothing wrong with it. There’s nothing wrong with you, for feeling that way. It’s normal, considering what you went through… Harry, you can talk to me. It’s okay. I know you need to talk, Chloe said you never talked to her. You need to share with someone. You’re not the first one this kind of thing ever happened to. There are people like you with stories like yours, Flynn. You don’t have to be alone, not anymore. I’m here with you now. I’m not making the mistake of leaving you behind again.”  
Nathan, you have no idea what you’re asking. You’re in too deep with me, mate. The thought of corrupting Nathan Drake, with his naïveté and his boyish humor and playful personality with Flynn’s dark secrets made him feel sick. Flynn felt like he already knew too much. I’m scared, mate. So shit scared, you have no idea. You say I’m safe now, but I feel so far from it. And when you find out everything, truly everything, you will leave. They always do. I don’t want you to leave, Nate. You’re all I got left. “Drake, I’m not going to open this up to strangers, people I don’t know. I won’t do it. That’s not me… Look at me. I’m officially retired. I sold my flat. I got maybe two nickels to my name. I got no money. Therapy is for the rich.”  
Those last five words brought a soft snort of humor from Nathan, their shared little joke when they mocked the higher elite and their bank accounts and fancy cars. The words felt hollow now, weighted down with Flynn’s helplessness. His financial situation was fuck-all right now. He lost everything, quite literally, with the goose-chase to Shambhala. He almost lost his life as well. “Who needs money when you got me? I won’t charge, consider it a family rate.”  
Your curiosity is going to kill you, mate. I miss being like that. I missed you, Nate. I wonder if you know that. “Believe me, mate,” Flynn sighed quietly, slowly dropping his self-embrace and allowing his hands to sink into the water. They sat there, limp, like dead fish. “You won’t like any of it… Just, don’t touch me while I’m talking about this, yeah?” The thought of being touched, even kindly or for general support while diving headfirst into the worst memories he held in his life so far, was enough to terrify him. It was so easy to go back to the scene, bringing everything along with it, sensations, smells, sights, every detail in grotesque precision. Flashbacks. That’s what they’re called. You get flashbacks. Nightmares too.  
Nathan’s hand retracted, but he did not budge from his spot seated at Harry’s back on the wall of the tub. “You got it, pal. Start from the beginning. When did he start?” There was a purposeful absence of a name, he would not dignify the man’s memory by allowing him to live on through saying it.  
Oh, good. Not that kind of beginning. I would have had no idea where to fuckin’ start, the men sneaking in my bed when I was a kid, or the time I ran away and was gang-raped in the alley by those fuckin’ yob bastards before I found my murdered mother. That kind of therapy costs extra. Flynn stifled a laugh, a poorly restrained snicker. He wondered how nuts he must look, giggling in the tub when he was bawling moments before. Jesus, Flynn, snap out of it. Humor the boy already. Sharing time. “After I left you at the museum, conveniently enough,” Harry murmured foggily, his breath still hitching with the aftershocks of sobs. “Imagine my luck. Here I thought you had a shit time, faced with prison until Sullivan busted you out. I brought him back the map to Borneo, like a faithful little dog… and of course, everyone’s so excited, we head off right away. Except Chloe. She was plenty pissed about the shit I pulled that got you busted. We got as far as the shipwrecks, weeks and weeks of stomping through swamps and undergrowth, building camps. Wasting fuckin’ time. Every day, he got a bit more impatient, y’know? Chomping at the bit. Where was the crew, where were the ruins… But we could never find the fuckin’ bodies. Ships, yeah. Never bodies. It’s like they all vanished, or we were missing them all entirely. Because there was evidence of them everywhere. They left all their cargo throughout the jungle… we were finding old rotten crates and dig sites… trinkets. Rubbish. Nothing.  
“After the first week of setting up our permanent camp, Chloe snuck off. She just… disappeared, about two days. Zoran only had me to hone in on. He… ordered me to his quarters in the evening, which I thought was weird. Why go to the private quarters in the evening? So fuckin’ stupid… I should have known. I should have seen it coming. The first time, he gave me no warning, he didn’t even cut me. He started laying into me, beating the ever-loving shit out of me, no explanation. Fuck, I thought he was going to kill me there. I wish he did, Nate. I really do. I never wanted to die as much as I did wish it happened then. Before all of it. He just tore my clothes off, ripped them to pieces, strangled the hell out of me I was sure he was going to kill me. He … raped me, with a knife to my throat on the floor. He just forced himself into me before I knew it was even happening and…” Flynn had to stop, had to remember to breathe. Tears were starting again, ready and waiting. There was silence as he tried to find the words, broken only by the ‘plink’ of his tears dripping off his unshaved chin into the water. “That was the first time. And from then, it became every couple days, at first. Just the … forcing himself on me.” The word ‘rape’ became hard to say, especially when he went to his private tent every time he was summoned without a fight. Flynn felt disgusted with his reluctance to call the act what it was, but his own compliance made him ashamed. “At first. Then he was getting more frustrated, he started fuckin’ killing his own men, Nate. He executed a dozen maybe, I lost count… Jesus, I couldn’t keep counting. He made us watch it all. Made me watch up close. Like it was a ‘special threat’ to our ‘special secret’, yeah? The whole fuckin’ time, I was so scared. I was sure he was gonna get to Chloe. He was going to get her, he was going to find out about her and you. I would put myself between him and her, take the abuse. I had to. I had to keep her safe from that monster. About maybe a month in is when he started cutting. Just my back, my legs… He’d threaten to cut my prick off. To castrate me. He got his kicks from that, seeing me so fuckin’ scared of him. Then three months in, you showed up, blew up the camps to shit…”  
Flynn closed his eyes, all too aware of the pain below his waist, deep in his hips and ass. For a while in Borneo, he thought Zoran would have killed him just from the internal damage alone from the sexual abuse. He never hurt so badly before, not that he can vividly remember. An agony that shot through him and went deep into his guts, sometimes bleeding and having to pad his underwear with toilet paper to stop leaking through his pants. Having to hide away from wandering eyes while he done so, hiding his limping in his stride during patrols. “He was so… angry. He beat me up a bit before he threw me down, the usual. But then he forced me to strip. He made me, I had no choice, never did. The knife… I knew this time, it was bad. He put his initials on me that night. Then fucked me into the floor while bleeding from it. He ordered us out of Borneo the next day. I had no time to recover, we just marched all the way back through the jungle like before. No… not like before. I was fine before. A morally-conflicted asshole, but fine. I got most these marks from Borneo. He worked me over good on the train after it blew. And again once we got to the Sap Chamber at Shambhala, but he didn’t have time to fool around that time. He was too close to his final goal, I was only an after-thought in the end. Like all my suffering and blood and sweat and tears meant fuckin’ nothing. But I made my decision then I was going to get Chloe out at all costs. Even at the cost of driving you away, the cost of my body, the cost of… me.” There was no other way to put it, Flynn was at a loss for words on the subject. He felt he lost himself in Borneo, or more accurately, it had been violently stolen a piece at a time. Rather interesting, considering he was supposed to be the thief.  
“That’s all…” Flynn whispered at last, one hand raising up out of the water to swipe at his runny nose and streaming eyes. It hardly helped, only dampening his face further. Nathan’s silence was oddly welcomed. To hear any input, any at all during his traumatic recall, might have caused Flynn to clam up. To say everything that happened out loud was bizarre, surreal. “That’s everything that prick did… I wish I was there to see him die, Nate. Because sometimes, it feels like he never left. I never used to wish death on anybody, that’s not me. But I’ve changed. Look at me. He did it to me. I never hated anyone as much as I hate him… I still fuckin’ feel him on me. I can smell him. I see him when I go to sleep. I’m never safe. Not anymore. I can’t protect myself against this shit.”  
The silence was welcomed before, but now it was deafening. Nathan still did not speak immediately, but instead went about collecting the bottles that fell haphazardly. The younger man leaned over him, reaching for the taps and turning them both for fresh, warm water before using the detachable showerhead to cascade it onto Harry’s hair and shoulders. Flynn had not predicted it, but he allowed his own arms to embrace himself again, hunching forward. He had hoped to avoid Nathan helping him bathe, had authentically tried to do so in private, but his fragile state prevailed over his stubbornness. It was when Nathan actually began to lather his hair with shampoo was when the younger man actually decided to say something. “None of this is your fault, Flynn. None. You were not at fault when he done that to you. He forced himself on you, you said it yourself. You’ll be okay, pal. It sounds like a crappy promise, but I will keep you safe until you can protect yourself again. You’re safe now, with me. I’ll be with you every step of the way. Everything is still fresh in your head, it’ll take time. Soon, he’ll be dead as he is for real. But for now, I can just help you clean up. Maybe if you don’t smell him anymore, you’ll feel better.”  
It is my fault, Nathan. I accepted the job, I looked into the job, but I should have been doing my research on the man I took the job from. I should have known better. I should have learned from my childhood, should have come to recognize a predator when I saw one. But I was foolish. Stupid. Greedy. Flynn’s tensed, raised shoulders slackened and fell, meekly surrendering to Nathan’s touch. The gentle massage on his scalp was a type of affection he craved all his life, yearned for it and watched it longingly from afar. Chloe was a nice substitute for simple human intimacy for a while, until she expected him to return it. It was a human component he felt he lacked, maybe stunted from his neglectful start, misshapen and unhealthy. Nathan was very careful, tenderly touching a knot of scarring where Harry cracked his head off the floor in Shambhala while they were hauling his unconscious body back. His eyes were burning, but he felt he had no more tears to give. “It’ll take a long, long time for me to feel better, mate… But, yeah. It is my fault. You’re forgetting I’m the moron that brought Lazarevic into our lives. I agreed to follow this man out into some godforsaken jungle, after betraying my best mate. I went to his tent alone… every time, even though I knew what was waiting. I played into his trap, so yeah, I’m at fault. The whole time I’m thinking if I listen, if I obey his every whim then I can get everyone out of it alive. I thought if… if I was the only one he would cut up and fuck, then it would be okay. Then I realized… He wasn’t going to let us go alive. There in Shambhala, at the entrance when it first opened to us. He was ready to execute you and Elena. He would have. And then he would have killed Chloe, and me…” Flynn trailed off quietly, he replayed the scenario in his head many times, remembering the sour bile in his throat as he felt pure, visceral fear. “I might not have known his plans from the start. But I knew enough that I am at fault. I know that much, I’m not fuckin’ stupid. I might not have had much of a choice, but I still fuckin’ did it.”  
Flynn wanted to argue that, wanted to shout and scream and get that awful tension off his chest, the one that has been building since the abuse first began in the jungle. Nathan, however, remained consumed with his task, having finished massaging every inch, shampooing every lock. He had to admit, Harry would have not been able to do as thorough as a job himself, it would have become too exhausting before long. His patient caretaker finally went about rinsing his hair clean of shampoo, the fingertip of his index finger under Flynn’s chin as a silent, non-verbal request to tilt his head back. Reluctant, Flynn allowed his head to be guided backwards, before warm water flushed the suds from his auburn hair. Just as detail-oriented as before, Nathan turned the taps off before going about soaking a washing cloth and dabbing Harry’s scarred shoulders. They twitched, Flynn still not entirely consenting to being bathed. The wet cloth retreated from his skin, cautious and reading his body language accurately. “Listen, pal,” Nathan muttered at last, sounding very solemn and unlike Drake. “Not having much of a choice is still not a choice. You didn’t choose any of that. That’s not you, Flynn. I know that. People make dumb mistakes and get into crap they might not have before, if they knew what would happen. That doesn’t make it your fault, Flynn. It’s not your fault.”  
Jesus, just when I thought that’s all there was left in me. The tears came hot and coursing down his damp face again, drawing his legs up to clutch his knees and tuck them to his chest. He never wished for isolation more than he did now, even though he felt lonely most the time. He wanted to shrink and disappear, out of Nathan’s sight. “It is my fault, you dumb asshole,” Flynn growled, his voice wavering with his struggle to maintain his composure. “He made me do shit, without even touching me or a gun to my head. He’d… teach me things, ferfuckssake, basically fuckin’ trained me. I … I never did that shit before, I’m a flirt, but there’s still things even I haven’t done… And I did it. Oh God, I did…”  
“Harry, stop,” Drake hushed finally, actually kicking his boots off. Flynn did not move, did not even ask why, he was fighting to keep vomit from rising in his throat while he wept. He sobbed gently, trembling, the warmth of the water not impacting him. I’m so disgusting. I can’t believe I did those things. It feels like a bad dream. But I know it happened, oh I sure do. Drake did not say another word, he simply sunk into the water directly behind Flynn, fully clothed. Harry shot a confused, empty stare over his shoulder, meaning to shift forward and distance himself, but Drake’s arms around him stopped him from slithering away. They wrapped around him, completely encircling him in an embrace despite how damp his skin was. “Stop,” Nathan whispered again, chin resting on Flynn’s quivering shoulder. “You’re okay now. It’s not your fault, Harry. None of it. You didn’t ask him to do those things to you. You did not give him permission, understand? You didn’t want any of it, he made you do it and look what happened to you when he got mad… He cut you up anyway. You were trying to survive, buddy. I know that now. Listen to me, just relax and breathe. You’re safe now, I got you. I got your back. I might not have always been there, but I’m here now. You didn’t do anything wrong, buddy. Hell, you’re alive. You doing something great, just by hanging in here with me. I thought I lost you a few times back then. More than a few times. And every time it happens, I’m … terrified. I don’t want to lose you, buddy. I wasn’t ready to lose you then, I’m still not ready to lose you. I just want you to hang in there, okay? Just hold on, pal. All that crap is behind you now. All the hard parts are over. You just need to hang on. You’ll be okay again.”  
When? Please, I want to know when. I can’t take it anymore. I just want to wake up and for it to be done and over with. Flynn hated the helplessness of his emotional whirlwind, absolutely loathed being waited on, he hated everything that happened since that night in the museum in Istanbul. But if he had one soft place to land, one solid piece of foundation he could depend on, it was Nathan Drake. Listening to Nathan’s breathing against his back, his chin on his shoulder, he had to admit he felt safe.  
Harry Flynn had to admit, it was not the way he pictured his first real bath since being brought back to civilization as he knew it with working plumbing and hot water and soap. He imagined a long, satisfying steamy shower in a decent hotel room in Borneo, wanting to scrub the musk of his rapist off him. In Nepal, he would have been happy with a hot tub, a Jacuzzi, anything that he would be completely submerged in almost scalding water just to get warm. Considering he shot Drake on the train and it had been followed by a searing explosion that shattered the locomotive, he was not entirely sure he’d see him again. In Shambhala, Flynn was sure Nathan was dead. It was hard to imagine a month later from nearly being murdered he would be at a beautiful beach in Cancun, sharing a tub with Nathan Drake.  
After comforting him, Nathan sat unmoved at his back while he continued cleaning. By the time Harry had been allowed to leave the tub, every inch of skin he allowed Drake to touch was scrubbed and tingling. Comprehendingly, Flynn wished to bathe himself from the waist down. From that point, Drake hauled himself out of the tub and disappeared off into the main bedroom again. It was another unspoken, appreciated gesture. Flynn cleaned himself even more thoroughly than Nathan had been on his skin, using the cloth to scour his thighs nearly raw, deeply reddened and irritated from his desperate scrubbing. He was kinder to his legs, they had suffered enough abuse over the months. His rear, however, Harry had been reluctant with. He wanted to savage himself with the cloth, gouge himself deep and scour away any trace of what happened. Christ, it still hurts. I can’t even wipe myself when I shit. It’s been weeks. Why did he hate me so much? Harry gingerly cleaned his crotch, wincing from the occasional flicker of pleasure stirring deep in his belly. Fuck, not now. Piss off already, I’m not actually in the mood. Stupid pecker. The water was a murky grey-brown, Flynn grimacing with repugnance as he yanked the plug from the drain and watched it swirl down. He took the opportunity to hose himself off with fresh, clean water, he was not going to take any chances of being tainted.  
Nathan had re-emerged from the hotel bedroom, his arms bundled with a rather fluffed, oversized navy-blue housecoat. Where he found it, Harry had not a clue. He gave an apologetic little smile, perhaps for not knocking. Nathan helped his arms into the sleeves and tied it tight around his thin waist, toweling the older man’s hair when it appeared he was struggling to stand on his own. Flynn teetered as if his balance was going, the hazy look in his eyes. Nathan slowly lured him out into the bedroom, helping him into the bed. The display cover had been pulled back and discarded on the floor, allowing Harry to get into the sheets directly. Flynn did not remember much else after that. The moment his head hit the pillow, he was done and gone to the world.  
~~~````~~~  
There, at the very top of the ancient pyramid of Shambhala, the chamber that opened before him was a vision he could have only dreamed of as a child, an avid reader of treasure-seeking adventures. Harry Flynn was still breathless from the seemingly endless flights of stairs, all the while with Guardians at their heels and gunfire thundering in his ears. The sight was enough to render him speechless and glued to the spot, boots stubbornly sticking to the floor. It was so very beautiful.  
The round chamber spread before him, brightly lit with torches electric blue flame vigilantly burning along the walls at equal intervals, pillars standing just inside the walls like spokes on a wheel. The largest, most intricately designed stone pillar was at the center of the room, spanning from floor to ceiling and at first entering, he was sure it had been actually a tree. The ceiling had been fastidiously carved and crafted to appear as the overhead branches towering overtop, yet bearing a unique prehistoric cultural influence in the artistic flare Flynn could not quite place. And just at eye-level, five feet up in the tree-pillar, was an enormous sapphire that made Harry’s heart swell with a strange sort of pride. He found the Cintimani Stone, a fable that long eluded its hunters and seekers for centuries. He had been the first to reach it, none of Zoran’s forces having escaped the fray of battle yet. Flynn was sure he lost Lazarevic himself back there, slipping away before anyone noticed his absence in the heat of a fire-fight. And he did it. He found what he sunk so much of his pain, suffering, fear and betrayals into. He sacrificed a lot for it. And here he stands, before even the great Nathan Drake could beat him to it.  
Flynn began to hesitantly make his way to the sapphire, enamored by its shine, his feet barely clearing the foot as he dragged them. It was hard to truly believe he was there, now standing before it, but it seemed oddly cloudy for a sapphire, for a stone or gem of any sort really. The colour was familiar despite how unnatural the hue of azure was. Curious, his bare index fingertip touched the surface, his brow furrowing when he found it almost feeling waxy. Resin. The fact sunk in slow, his bewildered excitement yielding to a strange resignation. It made plenty of sense. Why the hell would a sapphire this big be here of all places? Why would this effigy stand here, like a place of worship to the Tree of Life? The resin orb was still polished to a marvelous sheen, electric blue almost numbing his eyes. He could see his reflection if he looked close enough… Flynn squinted, catching a glimpse of some unfamiliar features, movement when he was standing completely still. His heart leapt up into his throat when he recognized a looming face poised over him, manically grinning. It had been unfamiliar at first, because he had never seen the man ever smile before.  
Zoran Lazarevic. Oh God, no.  
If Flynn had not been so deeply dehydrated and having emptied his bladder an hour before conflict even began, he might have wet himself. The British man went to whip around, to separate himself from his tormentor and put distance between them but a vice-like gigantic grip found the back of his neck and threw his weight forward face-first into the giant sphere of resin. Harry only managed to jerk his head forward just an inch, to keep his whole face from mashing into the sapphire-effigy and his forehead catching the blow. He saw an explosion of stars dance through his vision, before the overpowering, brain-numbing headache began to throb. Blood sheeted down his face from a split above his brow. Zoran would not let him up, keeping his head pressed in place, controlling him with force already. Harry could only wordlessly groan in pain, Lazarevic always hit harder than the punches Flynn was used to typically taking. Deeply stunned and disoriented, Harry only knew he was forcefully disarmed when he heard the metal clatter to the stone floor, his side-arm ripped from the holster hard enough for him to wince. Oh, God. No. Flynn dreaded this. He doubted he would have had a fighting chance against Lazarevic that outweighed him by at least 100 pounds of pure muscle, but some part of him hoped to find a way out of his predicament before it came to that. He knew Zoran would kill him the moment he was done with him, and it seemed there it was. Flynn saw it all happen before, when it happened in reality.  
“It seems we have reached the conclusion of our partnership, Mr. Flynn,” Zoran murmured contently at his back, Flynn clenching his body as he prepared to fight for his life.  
“Zoran, wait!” Flynn heard himself yell, the plea saturated with terror. “Okay, you win! You got everything, okay? You got the Stone, you got what you were looking for all this time, mate! We had a deal. You promised me you’d let us go in the end.”  
“That was before you betrayed me,” Zoran hissed, venom dripping from the tone. Flynn whined when his neck was squeezed tight to make him squirm. “I told you. I will tolerate no traitors. None. Not even the ones that become whores to get in good graces.”  
Harry cringed physically at the last statement as if struck, biting into his lip hard and feeling the coppery taste flood his mouth. Zoran never verbally humiliated him, it was one of the few blessings in an otherwise shitty situation. The words bothered him, especially when he was unwilling and yet never received any ‘good graces’. If anything, catering to his boss’ sexual tastes only caused him more problems.  
Flynn closed his eyes, but found himself suddenly propelled backwards and slamming onto his ass on the floor, a white-hot flash of agony shooting through his entire pelvis that made him gasp for breath. Sitting there, he knew he was dead. Daring to open his streaming eyes, cutting clear paths through fresh blood, Flynn stared up at his attacker.  
The nature of the nightmare changed. It had been playing out as a flashback, matching every detail until that point, right up until his eyes refocused and he found everything had transformed. The chamber no longer had doors, like he had somehow been dropped into his strange dimension without an entrance or exit, not even a damn window for a fleeting taste of the outside environment. The tree was no longer breathtakingly beautiful, it was gnarled, sickly and twisted, the column bent and alluding to strain under the ceiling’s weight. The ceiling was not decorated with branches, but countless blank accusing faces, masks. The Cintamani Stone was gone, replaced with a single, bloodied green eye gawking at him openly, unable to so much as blink without eyelids to shelter it. The pupil contracted and dilated, twitching as it watched his position from the floor, Coagulating chunks of plasma and blood ran down from the nerves were it had been ripped from a socket. And to Harry’s horror, the room was not the only thing that changed. He now had a full audience to observe Zoran’s punishing actions on him.  
Where there were once pillars lining the inner walls of the chamber now stood dozens, perhaps hundreds of people. He did not immediately recognize them, many of them had their faces in such an advanced state of decay, others were sightless staring skulls emerged from clothing, living skeletons. Some were still very fresh, new blood running from slack jaws. Their clothing was assorted. Some wore uniforms identical to Zoran’s men, combat gear and boots and observing him with apathetic accusations. Others were in brightly coloured Tibetan clothing. A majority were in civilian fighter gear he saw in Shangri-La, or simply plain clothes. Flynn then knew they were the ones whose deaths he caused, directly or indirectly, his spiritual body count. None would offer to help now, not when he watched and done nothing with their own grisly fates.  
Harry realized he was naked, sitting on the cold stone floor. His winter clothing just vanished, like he had never wore them at all to begin with. They were not even traces or tatters nearby to explain how. This can’t be happening. Forcing himself to find his attacker in the room, he tore his gaze up off the audience to Zoran Lazarevic’s hulking, predatory figure.  
Zoran Lazarevic’s craggy, often stern features were deranged and twisted into a primal sneer. Flynn had never seen anything like it in life, the nightmare image more horrifying than anything. The burn scars that marred him once were gone, vanished, like so many other details in this bizarre vision. Zoran was naked himself, another detail which had never occurred in reality. No matter how many times Flynn had been raped by the man, Lazarevic never undressed himself, only shoving his pants down far enough to violate despite how often Flynn himself was stripped. Zoran’s flesh was rippling with twitching muscles, veins and arteries bulging hideously. His skin tone was a strange blue coloration, similar to the Guardians that rampaged Shambhala’s ruins. Zoran had done it. He achieved his goal, taken the Stone’s power for himself… and now he stalked to his victim on the floor, Flynn unable to move as he sat paralysed in mindless fear. With each step, Zoran’s massively endowed manhood was raging hard and bounced with the pace, thick as Flynn’s forearm and damn-near as long.  
No. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real. Flynn wanted to scream, could feel it urging up his throat but catching and unable to release.  
Those mammoth hands encircled Flynn’s throat easily, calloused fingers overlapping and squeezing viciously. His hands flew up to his neck, to his attacker’s wrists to try and break contact but it was not happening, they were as unyielding as steel. “Zoran…” Flynn was only able to choke out before his voice was rendered impossible to use without oxygen, eyes bulging as a freight-train force threw him onto his back hard enough to wind him. Harry was struggling, writhing under the giant’s grip but no progress was being made. He might as well have been a child again, his own strength so out-stripped he simply could not compete. Flynn’s heels braced into the other’s man’s hips as the impossibly heavy weight tried to settle over him, pin him to the floor. Get off me, he tried to shriek, his legs bracing and locking to keep Zoran away but ever-determined, his attacker only lunged past his grip on his pelvis and muscled through. Panicked, Flynn’s hands began to claw, scratching his dulled fingernails as deep as he could into Zoran’s forearms, prying at them to no avail. His hauntingly desperate actions were only mere foreplay for the monster, the man’s face inches from his own and snarling, swallowing up his view. Flynn had never been taken on his back, not once. Zoran only forced into him from behind, always on the floor and in agony, but a small blessing of itself. He did not have to see.  
“Useless fucking slut,” a ghoulish voice hissed in his face, it sounded like gravel churning, bones breaking and snakes slithering. “You are nothing. Even less than nothing. You are more useless and disgusting than your own rotting mother. Let me show you what you are born to do, what your mother did and what you will do until I am done with you. And then, they will have you. You deserve that much. They have been waiting for you so patiently.” Flynn realized with dawning dread and horror that Zoran was referring to his silent audience, all bearing knives identical to Lazarevic’s own blade.  
If Flynn could breathe, he would have puked. Zoran’s erection was demandingly prodding at his rear, fruitlessly gliding up and down the cleft as he blindly searched for the pucker nestled there. Tears streamed from his eyes, obscuring Zoran’s grotesque, leering face. No, Flynn tried to beg, throat working under Lazarevic’s clutch. No, you’re going to fuckin’ kill me with that thing. Jesus, Zoran, please, don’t. It was impossibly large, freakishly so, as if the Stone had mutated Zoran beyond his human capability. With lube and patience, he might have had a shot like a snowball in hell, but now it was merely an instrument to cause pain, always has been.  
The audience was gliding closer, ever closer, a tightening and spectral spectators’ ring mere feet away now. Flynn’s hysteria was bubbling over, he would have been hysterically screaming if he could wrench in a ragged breath through iron fingers. Zoran released Harry’s throat at last, allowing him to breathe, but his furious struggles were mere play to the gargantuan man. Flynn’s breathing was hyperventilating sobs at this point, when he found his lack of oxygen depleted his strength that his attempts to pound his attacker’s face in only bounced off almost meekly. That only seemed to be a mild irritation, taking both Flynn’s wrists and slamming them up above his head on the stone hard enough to bruise. Some forceful adjustment and both of his wrists were crossed overlapping, pinned using only one of Zoran’s huge hands shackling them in place. No, Flynn tried to beg, but his words were frozen in his throat. And then, Zoran smirked down at him, his free hand now firmly grasping the Tibetan phurba dagger, the golden key to his very obsession all this time. Zoran had nearly stabbed him with it before at the monastery, aiming for inches beside his head as a jarring threat. Now he would not miss.  
“Lay still, whore,” Zoran’s lips moved, but his voice did not emerge. It was one from his childhood, one of the first real abusers he had, one of his mother’s clients that had made a regular habit of sneaking into his bed. “You love this, I know it, I see it in your face every fucking time.”  
The glow of that disembodied eye cast a tiny sliver of light off the very tip of the phurba dagger, one split second that stretched for an eternity before it whistled down so fast he did not see the blur of movement before he felt the impact. Flynn’s eyes widened in astonishment, pain lacing across his chest from the site on his shoulder where the dagger was now embedded deep in his breast above his heart. He had never been stabbed before, not in the chest, the blade not a slender knife but a thick, triangular based weapon that speared into flesh. Crimson erupted from underneath on his tanned skin, pulsing with his heartbeat.  
Oh God, he’s killed me. This is it. I’m dead.  
“FLYNN! Flynn, please, open your eyes and look at me!”  
Harry Flynn did not want to, was terrified of what he would reveal to himself but still in that submissive state of mind he forced them to open with his own panicked whimpers in his ears. Nathan Drake’s blue-green eyes stared back at him instead of the ghoulish monster’s, enormous with alarm and fright. Flynn’s gaze trailed down to Drake’s lip, just freshly split and running a bloody streak down his chin. Harry’s lungs were burning, a feverish hyperactive pant wrenching from his aching throat. He was aware the weight on top of him was not a rapist but only Nathan straddling his hips to stop him from blindly flinging himself out of bed. Blinking hot tears from his searing eyes, Flynn allowed himself to slacken and relax.  
“Hey, there you are,” Nathan chuckled at last, the relief thick in his tone. He pet Flynn’s cheek to comfort, sweeping tears away with his thumb. “You were having another nightmare, pal. That’s all. Just a nightmare, okay? You’re here with me in Cancun, remember? It’s okay, Flynn, you’re alright.”  
Says you. A nightmare like that, Jesus… Like to see anyone’s reaction to that. Flynn swallowed past the lump of sobs lodged in his throat, forcing a soft nod under Drake’s touch. “Yeah…. Yeah, I’m alright.”  
The younger man moved off his hips, returning to his side of the bed and sorting out the bedding somewhat to a semblance of comfort. He stayed quiet, very unlike Drake, Flynn knew he was wanting to chat it out. He could tell by the way he was on his side with his head propped in one hand, elbow wedged into his pillow. Flynn made the deliberate choice to stay on his back. He could not bear to look directly at Nathan, those honest and sympathetic eyes just burrowing holes in his skin but turning his back seemed too heartless even for Flynn. He could hear Nathan clear with throat with purpose, meaning to finally talk after the period of silence. “So, uh. Guessing you don’t want to go back to sleep just yet. I admit, after that clock to the face, I’m not ready either.”  
Aw, shit. Forgot about that. Flynn immediately felt guilt, the throb of his knuckles probably not even close to the ringing in Nathan’s head. With a low groan, Harry’s forearm rested over his eyes, an effort to dry them without being too obvious. “Sorry ‘bout that, mate. I was so deep in it, I thought you were someone else.” Flynn had to swallow hard again, the hoarseness of his voice still embarrassing him. We don’t need to say his fuckin’ name, we both know very well who it was. Fuckin’ prick. He was aware he was still wearing the housecoat… or, was. The belt come loose and the article was splayed open in his struggling. Absently, he tugged it back closed and tied the belt, shivering now that his sweat rapidly cooled on his exposed skin with the air conditioned room.  
“Don’t worry about it, buddy. No, no. Don’t bother. We got to change that bandage, buddy. It’s been a while and we’ve been putting it off. No more infections, right?” Nathan insisted, much to Harry’s utter annoyance. Flynn hated bandage changes.  
Anxiety had been a permanent hot coal deep in Flynn’s guts, and now it was burning a little brighter. He ignored it as he obeyed Drake’s wishes, opening the chest of the gown and slowly easing himself up to sit. It was a relief all the agony and sensations of the nightmare were only the ache of old wounds and a trick of the mind. Flynn could feel his hair was in disarray, standing on end near the back of his head from the pillow. If anyone were to see me like this, anyone at all, I’d prefer this. I trust Drake with my bloody life. I never needed to trust him with it because he would always do the right thing, but I do. Harry Flynn had to admit it, it would be an entirely different situation if Victor Sullivan had been here camped out with them. He had no idea how it would have worked out with only one bed between three grown-ass men, but he was glad it never happened.  
Nathan was already cautiously and tenderly peeling layers of gauze from his chest when he decided to broach the subject, Flynn’s back pressed to the headboard. The older man had to grit his jaw to forbid even a wince of discomfort from the biting sting. “You sure you’re okay, buddy?” Drake murmured gently, voice as soft as his touch. “This was a bad one, I can tell. You wouldn’t breathe. It’s like you were having a panic attack in your sleep.”  
Christ, look at how big that fuckin’ hole is. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he used a shotgun. Flynn’s natural born curiosity overcome common sense, his gaze flitting down to his aching shoulder. There was indeed evidence of healing, almost translucent tissues recuperating in the pit where previously had been a small hole. The colours ranged from a graphic bloody red to a nauseating green and yellow, dull purples and white puckered skin trying to knit over exposed internal structure. Flynn supposed he was lucky he got to keep his arm at all from the infection, but the fact he was not dead was still a shock. He had to tear his eyes away, feeling very sick to his stomach, hot and cold at once as he fought down bile and acid bubbling up in his esophagus. “What did I fuckin’ say earlier, Nate? No, I’m not okay… I don’t want to sleep, I can’t. No way. I prefer staying here, in reality.” With you, Flynn nearly added, almost blurting his treasured, hidden secret. There was a flush of shame, but a very unique variety, one he was not accustomed to. It was not like the type of repulsive shame he felt when he was being sexually violated and humiliated, wishing to be anywhere else. It was an… exciting shame, like being caught by your roommate wanking it while fantasizing about them or admitting a coveted secret in the hours of pillow talk with a lover.  
This next part, Flynn hated the most. Nathan had prepped a spray-bottle of hydrogen peroxide, giving the gory pit a liberal dose. Initially, it just felt like cool water being spritzed over the site. The acidic stinging began almost right after the chill, Flynn clutching at the pillows under him in sweaty fists. “Fffffffuck,” Harry hissed, the arm directly adjacent to the wound trembling violently. It was getting easier to deal with every day that much was true. Before, it used to feel like they were pouring boiling water directly onto it. The sensation was still a son of a bitch to deal with, rolling his head back against the board to stare up at the ceiling. “Next time, knock my ass out for this shit, seriously mate. I’m sick of this.”  
“I know, man. I know,” Drake crooned, before wads of fresh gauze were packed into the crater that used to be a smooth, flawless spot. Nathan was pretty skilled at basic medical care, he was getting plenty of practice over the years of risking life and limb for adventure’s sake. Flynn could only stare at the spackled ceiling, at nothing in particular, trying so hard not to reflect on his nightmare but his brain was stuck on repeat. “Almost done, then we can watch some tv for a bit.”  
“Oh yeah, see if they got any of the skin flicks on the adult channels,” Flynn muttered through his clenched jaw, using humor as he often did to keep his mind of things. He heard Drake snort with a laugh, bringing a grin to his own lips despite his discomfort. “You know, it’s Mexico, who knows what’s legal down here… Ow, FUCK!”  
“Shit, sorry man,” Nathan gasped out, sometimes too clumsy for his own good. Flynn quivered with each twitch of his nerves. There was a rasp of medical tape being secured over the site, fastening the smaller patches. Previously, his whole shoulder would need to be wrapped. Now, taping up the spot sufficed just fine. “There. All finished.” Warm calloused fingers ran over Flynn’s wrist, tracing over the spot and into his palm before lacing with his own. Harry’s brow furrowed, glancing down to find Nathan’s hand in his. There was a confusing flood of emotions deep in his belly again, the thrilling sort of shame, excitement, a vague happiness and fear. “Really sorry, buddy. Go ahead, lay back down and get comfortable. Still pretty raw in there I’m guessing.”  
“No shit, Sherlock,” Flynn grumbled with mild agitation, feeling as if the most obvious had been stated. He slowly sunk back down under the sheets and covers, propping his head up using the rather over-stuffed pillows. Not that he minded, he could see the old television set from that angle. But all the while, he clutched onto Nathan’s hand in his own, taking it as permission to hold onto.  
“Oh, eat a dick, Watson,” Nathan retorted, and they both erupted into unpredicted giggles and snorts. Flynn could not help it. Drake always knew what to say to make him laugh, their sense of humor was compatible from the start. When the chuckles tapered down to silence, Nathan retrieved the remote to the television from the nightstand and flicked it on. It took a while for a picture to even come into focus, the white-noise hum assuring them that the set was still working. When the picture was finally viewable, Flynn could not understand Spanish well enough to really comprehend the basic cable they had, a news program, a soccer game, and some other shopping deal. Flynn was exhausted, he did want to sleep but the nightmares were too frightening to contend with.  
Harry forgotten Nathan’s hand was still entwined with his, the warmth luring him into a dazed lethargy, until he felt the fingers give his a squeeze. Flynn’s half-lidded eyes flicked to Drake, back on his side again and watching. The grin was gone, only concern lingering. “Flynn, you know you’re safe here, right?”  
Shit, not this again. Drake, I don’t want to talk about this. Wasn’t what happened in the bloody tub enough for you? Flynn released Drake’s hand and withdrew his without warning. “Just stop, mate. I know that. Knock it off, yeah?”  
“I’m serious. You’re safe here. If you find yourself in one of those nightmares again, you have to tell yourself it isn’t real. You just have to remember you’re with me and you’re safe.” Nathan left his arm outstretched, a non-verbal offer if Harry decided against his minor temper tantrum.  
“Nate, shut up. Just stop talking about it. I don’t want to think about any of it, I don’t want to talk about it, I just want to pretend the last four to five months never fuckin’ happened, yeah?” Flynn erupted with frustration straining his voice. He was tired of weeping, he was very well aware how weak, vulnerable and battle-worn it made him look. But the sobs from his nightmare never fully dissipated from his chest, it was like a physical weight bundled there deep in his core. He was much too tired to break that dam right now. “I can’t do this right now, mate. I just… don’t have it in me. It was a lot to go through today.”  
Drake flinched at first, he always took it the hardest when the ones he was closest with yelled at him. But when Drake often would either go into an argument swinging or even with a witty little remark thrown in, he done neither. The younger man instead slowly moved closer, enfolding Flynn in his embrace and pulling him a bit onto him. Harry had tensed, unsure just how to react or what to do in response, finding his cheek resting on Nathan’s chest and nestled into the crook of Drake’s arm on his side. Flynn’s head craned upwards with a questioning frown. “I’m sorry, pal. I know you’ll open up when you’re ready, like before. I know you been through a lot. Hell, more than I’ll ever know. But that’s okay, Flynn. I’m right here with you, I’m not going anywhere. You’re safe with me, just … watch the news.”  
There was another flare of agitation, but it was quickly consumed with the thrilled butterflies dancing in Flynn’s gut, listening to a strong, steady heartbeat drumming away under his ear. He may have been flushing faintly, he could feel his face grow warm but he did not yank himself free. It was nice. He felt so cozily warm, the gentle rise and fall of Drake’s chest soothing and feeling hot breath disturb his hair. He would have been fine to sit there and snuggle, but he felt the silence was still too barren, too awkward in the beginnings of this new kind of affection shared between them. The British man often liked to fill silence with complaints or jokes, but now he found more complaints than reasons to laugh. “I don’t speak Spanish, mate,” Flynn snorted softly, although he found he was not paying much attention to the television anyway. “Place is a tourist trap, never needed it before.”  
“Do you ever stop whining?” Nathan grunted softly, using the arm Harry was nestled under to tuck him closer. “This place is all we could afford, sorry it doesn’t have the English tv package. Just pipe down.”  
Harry Flynn was not awake much longer, despite his adamant objections to sleeping moments earlier. Nathan’s steady breathing and the gentle thudding rhythm of his heart against his ear was more effective than any lacklustre sleep aid he had tried over the years. He found he never liked to snuggle before when he was enduring a bout of nightmares, finding being touched was something he absolutely loathed after the subject of those dreams. Nathan’s clean skin smelt of soap, yet another hook that dragged him to the depths of sleep. Before long, he stretched one arm over Nathan’s middle, he was out before the weather forecast ended.  
~~~````~~~  
Flynn had no idea he was a heavy sleeper until he heard voices murmuring softly, as if trying not to disturb him napping away contently. It made him uneasy, that little anxious coal that dulled to lifeless black now sparking back to life in his guts. Nathan’s voice reverberating deep in his chest that Flynn used as a pillow eventually triggered him to flicking his eyes open and force his tired mind to make sense of what he was hearing.  
“Aw, crap, sorry pal,” Nathan apologetically murmured, Flynn’s blurry vision adjusting with each blink clearly. He found his head was still resting on Drake’s chest, but sunlight had filtered in through the drawn curtains. Morning? Already? The hell, did I sleep all night like this? The stiffness in his neck provided him with the answer, groaning as Flynn slowly stretched out against Drake’s side where he slept nestled tight against.  
“’Bout time, thought you boys would never wake up.” Sullivan. Dammit. The offensive scent of thick tobacco smoke hung in the room, despite the windows cracked to prevent it. Harry had not wanted to look at the elder man, but a glance towards the windows shown him occupying the only chair situated indoors, ash tray perched on the arm rest. The deposit of ashes shown he been there a while. So, privacy is out of the question. For now, at least. “Figured we should go out to eat before I head out,” Victor urged around the cigar pinched between his teeth. “Missed breakfast and lunch, will have to be an early dinner.”  
The fuck? Have I been out that long? Harry lunged up off Drake’s chest, scrubbing his weary, sleep-clouded face in both hands when he became aware he was drooling while unconscious. The housecoat’s belt loosened throughout the night and day apparently, opening at the chest which he hastily tugged back closed. Nathan’s hand hovered over his spine, hesitatingly long enough to reconsider it entirely and letting the arm fall back down. “How long have you been sitting there, Victor?” Flynn rasped, his voice hoarse and throat very dry.  
A sly glimmer crept into Sullivan’s eyes, one that Flynn immediately did not like. Nathan did not catch it, now freed, he took the opportunity to slink off to the bathroom with no doubt an uncomfortably full bladder. “Long enough,” Sullivan almost purred teasingly, almost relishing the embarrassment. “Relax, as far as I can tell, you both were clothed and decent. I’ve been sitting here since noon, woke Nate up. He insisted on letting you sleep. A quarter after four, now? Are the nightmares back or did you sleep the whole night?”  
“Is it any of your fuckin’ business?” Flynn snapped irritably, averting his eyes and turning his back to fling his scrawny legs over the opposite side of the mattress and set his feet down. Victor Sullivan and Harry Flynn never really got along well, there was a tension over their shared interest in their mutual friend. Flynn was not sure what caused Sullivan to peg him that way, but he was aware of why he disliked the older man. Sullivan often represented the voice of reason when Nathan Drake was concerned, which often disrupted Harry plans for shenanigans and treasure-hunts. Victor being nearby meant Flynn felt pressure to behave himself more, to keep the dirtier jokes and the more playful expressions to himself. Having an utter lack of father role models for his entire life made Flynn combative at times with older authority figures. Plus, the protective way Victor lingered about or interjected himself with Drake’s plans often spoiled it for Harry. This made them distant and even cold to each other on the best of times, but now was not even remotely close to one of those moments. Flynn found himself loathing the older man’s presence, deeply disturbed by the knowledge that Sullivan had seen his injuries at their worst. If it was only the gunshot wound, he would have been fine with that. But Victor saw everything, according to Drake. He saw the carvings, the initials, the bruises… Bile bubbled hot in Flynn’s throat, he had to force a stern swallow to bite it back down. “You plan on watching me dress too, or was watching me sleep not enough for you?” Flynn normally would not have been so shy, hell he would consider giving Victor a bit of a show if it meant making him uncomfortable enough to leave.  
Flynn did not dignify turning to look, not even as he heard Victor Sullivan haul himself up out of the chair with a groan from aching, sore joints and the long stretch of inactivity. He was thankful to hear the door open and shut as Sully let himself out, no doubt to wait in the jeep until Flynn and Nathan finished cleaning up and motivating themselves to get started with the day. Harry knew how bitter and cranky he sounded, but it was extremely difficult to feel as shitty as he did and not have it reflect in his mood.  
~~~````~~~  
By the time the three men were able to finally sit down at an outdoor table to eat, it was near evening with the sun rapidly sinking in the off-season. Not that Flynn minded, his appetite was not the strongest since his health improvements. The worn-out British man was, however, very much aware of how different he was since the last he browsed a beach and sipped a beer with Nathan Drake. Much had changed since then, as they sat in simple plastic chairs on some steak-house patio, Flynn idly rolling the amber cool bottle in his calloused hands as he reflected on it.  
Last time four months or so before, Harry Flynn was not alone in a relationship-sense, he was happily engaged with his mother’s ring at home on Chloe Frazer’s finger. Flynn had also been at the peak of his health and physical condition, he felt stronger in his late thirties than he did in his twenties than packed him to the brim with confidence. He was happy. Or, happier than he ever been in his life before, that meant something. He was on the tracks of something big, at the time he had no clue what, but his instincts were screaming at him to go for it no matter how uneasy Zoran Lazarevic made him feel. He was strong. Flynn was feeling complete, for closest to it he ever been before. So much had happened since then.  
Harry Flynn found himself at least 40 pounds lighter, after fighting his way tooth and claw back from death’s doorstep and much paler than his past sun-kissed glow from basking in beach rays. He was aware how frail and sickly he appeared, hyper-attuned to curious glances and stares from not just passersby but his two companions. Flynn got dressed without the ugly truths of a mirror, turns out Sullivan took the time to shop for some clothing for them and dropped it off when he first came by. He was thankful none of it was Victor's own tastes like the blindly-coloured button-downs he always was seen in. The jeans needed a belt, to his dismay, despite it being smaller than his previous size in the waist. He opted for the simple black t-shirt, but also the hooded zippered sweater a plain muted grey. It was more clothes than was typical for the average tourist, or even what the older thief would have formerly wore. His fiancée was gone, and the cursed ring now hung looped in the necklace he kept since his teens. Harry, previously all smirks and sass, was now rather withdrawn, quiet, he often kept an almost saddened neutral expression. His body language spoke formerly about bravado and a natural smug confidence. Flynn was now almost curled in on himself, keeping even a straight-backed posture was still a discomfort on his aching body. He was painfully aware how his clothing was basically hanging off him, loose where it would have been previously filled out better. And while deeply grateful for the presence of clothing, he wondered if he would ever be able to feel remotely okay with his own body again, to hang around a beach in a damn bathing suit.  
“You okay, Flynn?” Nathan asked at his side, the concern in his voice dragging him back to reality from his rather depressing thoughts. Harry had to jerk his head away from the beachfront across the highway, miles down the road to meet Nathan’s worried gaze. “You’re pretty quiet.”  
Sure, Nate. See how chatty you would be, with a hand of cards like mine. The snarky response was on his lips, about to snap it out, but Flynn’s eyes flitted over to Victor Sullivan, identical beer in hand and watching him skeptically. The sass died, the weariness giving away to passivity. “M’fine, Nathan. Really.”  
“You were looking pretty pale there, kid,” Sullivan murmured around the cigar, still eyeing him like a hawk. “We can grab it to go, if you’re still not feeling the best.”  
“Sully’s right, no big deal if you’re feeling dizzy or anything,” Nathan added immediately, ever the helpful doting type. “You just looked pretty ill there for a minute.”  
Frustration was already beginning to rear its hideous head, Flynn was not one to be catered to or fussed over, especially from former enemies and friends. Harry was not even entirely sure what to call them anymore. People that saved your life when anyone else would have let you die. Not enemies, not anymore. Hell, you fell asleep on Nathan’s chest. There was a brief flush of embarrassment, before he decided to speak and put their minds at ease. “Both of you, shut it. I’m fine. Better than I’ve been in a while. Yeah? Now you two gonna stop gawking?”  
The bluntness of the statement was enough for the pair of Americans, quickly looking to change the subject which was not difficult when bikini-clad tanned ladies sauntered by in gaggles. Nathan and Victor began to banter amongst each other, thick as thieves, reminiscing about old times in cities helter-skelter across the globe. Harry Flynn listened for a time, but it felt more like eavesdropping on a conversation between two close friends that that would never betray each other like he had them. It was not long before he zoned out, staring off in the direction of the ocean again, lost in the mire of his recollections. Cancun was the first beach he came to after escaping from the streets of Britain with enough money to finally get out as a late teen. After a lifetime of poverty and hating the rain and sleeping on streets, it was heaven with sandy beaches and sun. But now, it was a hollow sort of longing when he should at least feel content. Flynn thought the warm sun would cheer his spirits after dreaming of warmth in the chill of Nepal for so long. He found it only had the opposite effect.  
Sullivan’s insistence of ‘a real beef steak’ on their return to warm climate was why it took so long for them to find a place to settle down and eat, considering they were in Mexico and most places did not serve steak the way Victor preferred. Drake ordered two burgers, Sully his steak, Flynn had no appetite but ordered fries. They were waiting for their meals and Harry was idly watching the waves and the seagulls fly lazily on the salty breeze when he heard the words.  
Nathan had must have made an infamous Drake quip, because Sully appeared both amused and annoyed with the statement. The elder man shook his head, as if to scold his protégé. “Ah, so we got ourselves a comedian here.”  
Flynn’s fingers tightened hard around the glass bottle in his grasp, knuckles whitening as he felt dread sink down deep into his guts. A comedian. It was not Sullivan’s voice that echoed it in his mind, a sound he could not block out by plugging his ears. It was a dead man’s voice, his vocal cords still working even though they are probably rotting as the three of them were enjoying beers. A comedian. It was one of the few nicknames Zoran had given him, one used with contempt and disgust instead of affection. Flynn felt the nausea cascade over him like the ocean, dizziness spinning his head and making him wish he was back at the motel room.  
Flynn lurched up from the table and went for the public bathroom indoors, muttering about needing to be excused when met with confused glances from his companions. He had not eaten anything yet today, but the urge was impossible to fight off for long. Shit. I’m going to puke. Jesus, why am I thinking of him here and now? Why now? He was thankful the bathroom was unoccupied, crashing into the single stall just in time to bend at the waist and heave his stomach contents out into the unclean toilet bowl. It was hardly anything but acid that made his esophagus burn. Using the sleeve of his sweater to dry his face from perspiration, Flynn spat a few more times to get the taste out of his mouth. This bathroom was hardly the place to be, the floor so dirty, Flynn would not dare kneel even though his legs wobbled. The stall walls were literally wall-to-wall graffiti and scribblings, greasy fingerprints illuminated in the fluorescent lighting. He used his foot to flush, even the handle looked grubby and gross. Don’t even bother using the water to rinse your mouth, probably not drinkable. Time to grin and bear it.  
Flynn openly ignored the concerned glances from his companions when he rejoined them, a mouthful of beer only making the burn in his throat feel sour. He could feel Nathan’s soulful, worried eyes weighing on him heavy, even as he returned to his ocean gazing. Don’t worry about it, mate. Just old skeletons rattling away behind the closet door. Flynn ate in silence when their food arrived, despite the excited, appreciative bantering of his companions as they enjoyed their first ‘American’ meal since their trip to Nepal. He had not wanted to eat, his stomach still roiling away and bitter but he forced himself to consume it to avoid more lectures. Meals finished, bills paid, Flynn felt all too grateful to make the short drive back to the motel. He was never previously a home-body, especially on a beautiful beach such as this, but the single-word trigger earlier was enough to dampen his already miserable mood.  
As it turns out, Victor Sullivan was wishing them good bye, a temporary one as he was sniffing out some possible auctions up north and had buyers spamming his phone. Nathan Drake and Victor Sullivan sometimes parted ways on jobs when one of them was busy or out of commission, but Harry was sure his own presence was straining the two close friends. Whether or not any of them wanted to admit the fact he was a burden, Flynn was no fool. The world does not stop turning just because he nearly bought the farm. Everyone else had bills to pay, jobs to do, lives to continue living. It was the nature of Harry Flynn’s relationship with Sully that was possibly hastening his departure. But as Nathan had previously said, even promised, he was not going to abandon Harry to suffer alone.  
~~~````~~~

Harry Flynn did not have to look outside the tent to know where he was, the splintered rough floorboards beneath his knees told him he was in Borneo, and he had grown very familiar with this particular texture. There were secret shames he did not admit to himself or anyone else, ones that he could hide away as it did not leave marks like Zoran often preferred to do. But there were times he had to satiate his boss’ appetite for sadism and sex without suffering face down on the floor, and some of those times Flynn preferred to forget.  
Zoran Lazarevic was looking to be in a foul mood as ever, the humid, sticky heat sharpening his temper. At times Flynn did not understand or had explained to him, Zoran would relent in the vicious anal violations perhaps long enough for Harry to heal, but needed satisfaction in other ways. He had forced Harry to kneel with a gun pointing to his head, the same favoured side-arm that he almost rammed down Flynn’s throat on one occasion. Harry remembered this particular flashback nightmare. This was the first time Lazarevic forced him to perform oral. Not at deeply traumatic as the rapes, but still repulsive and against his will.  
Flynn knew it was coming, he saw the bulge in Zoran’s combat-issue jeans, a Pavlovian response to his private nightly summoning to the tent. He tried to position himself away from it as it loomed before his face, but the pistol following his movements forbid him from budging his knees from between Lazarevic’s polished boots. Flynn’s hands instinctively rose, to fend off being mashed in the face by unwanted strikes that seemed to happen out of nowhere. Especially when he opened his big fuckin’ mouth. Right now, he could not stop the words from spilling out like vomit. “Zoran, wait! Hey, we found the ships! You asked me to deliver, I’m delivering but you need to give me space to breathe, mate.”  
That last request brought a frightening sneer to Zoran’s disfigured features, the rage blazing in his dull grey eyes letting Flynn know he said the wrong words. The pistol went back in the holster, but before Harry could move back up to his feet, a steel-grip bit down on both his shoulders and kept him on his knees. Shit. Flynn knew that meant one thing. “You have found nothing of value, Mr. Flynn. Nothing. I am sick of hearing excuses. I want to give my ears a rest from your incessant whining and give a real purpose to your mouth instead of jokes.”  
Flynn felt nauseous, his rationed dinner unsettled in his stomach. But he knew he had to obey. Squeezing his eyes shut and trying to block it out changed nothing, just the fact that Lazarevic’s veined, thick erection was jutting out towards his face when he opened them, peeking out from the zipper boldly. He considered bolting, scrambling backwards on hands if he had to, but calloused, rough fingers snared into his hair and pulled it into a fist, bringing reflexive tears of pain to his eyes. “Fuck! Zoran, stop. Hey, this was not what I was hired for, you never mentioned this when I accepted!”  
“Another joke,” the Serbian warlord growled, bemused but clearly reaching his limit. “Last warning, before I cut out your tongue and give it to your woman.”  
Threats involving Chloe was what always killed the fight in him, Flynn felt a sickening wave of anxiety at the thought of her being involved in any of this shit. He was not sure why he protested in the first place, it always made it worse. Zoran’s grip on his hair basically guided him in place, all he had to do was open his mouth to allow it to begin. The blunted invasion immediately rammed to the back of his throat, a reflexive gag almost making him shy away. “Enough,” Zoran snarled once, the free massive hand gripping Flynn forcefully by the jaw and yanking him back down. Harry had to admit, performance was not necessary here, only having to close his eyes to try and bear it and catch a breath when Lazarevic pulled out long enough for him to whoop in a gasp of air. The taste alone was making him want to retch, a musky, salty thickness that flooded his mouth and clung to his tongue. Harry had no idea what to do with his hands, they kept flying up to Zoran’s hips to stop the wild bucking into his face but when Lazarevic growled in response, he let them fall back to his lap in fruitless frustration.  
“Sir, report from Team Alpha – err, sorry sir,” a voice started, Flynn flinching in horror and shock between Zoran’s legs, saliva flowing down his chin and wetting his shirt. Zoran paused his brutal thrusts, allowing his slick member to flop out of Flynn’s throat and Harry sucked in a harsh breath before coughing convulsively.  
Glancing up to Zoran’s face, he saw the warlord was staring to their peeper. Zoran’s second-in-command stood at the entrance, deeply conflicted between ducking out due to the scene and staying for reporting orders. Harry Flynn felt mortified, more than he felt since first arriving in Borneo, his face blazing red. As much as the camp heard his screams at night, they never seen anything first-hand. Now changed things.  
“Stay, lieutenant,” came that throaty growl again, the anxiety that flared in Flynn’s chest now burning out of control. It took discipline to keep his teeth from chattering, because before he could protest, the slimy blunted member pushed between his lips again and flattened his tongue. “I will be finished momentarily.”  
Flynn wanted to throw up, but the worst was coming. The thrusting was harsh, bashing into his nose and bringing more saliva spilling down his chin. He could feel the pace already changing, Zoran’s urgency to deal with the matter and dispose of the thief for the night was a priority over play. Flynn’s eyes kept closing, trying to, but it was so hard to block it all out when he could not so much as breathe. Gagging was constant, his reflex being battered with each buck. All the while, he was aware there were two sets of eyes on him now instead of one.  
Finally, after what felt like an eternity and a half, Flynn felt Zoran’s hips mash into his face, twitching testicles at his damp chin. Zoran never gave Harry the option, shooting his heavy load down his throat and holding him in place until he had no choice in swallowing or suffocating in spunk. Flynn whimpered, he could not help it, forcing himself to swallow no matter how sick he felt. Only then did Zoran’s vice-grip release and he slumped forward to his hands to gasp for oxygen. Shame burned in him like his eyes did with tears, using his bared forearm to hastily clean the filth from his own face. “We are done here, Mr. Flynn,” Zoran snapped down at him like nothing had occurred at all, already stuffing himself back into his pants. “You are dismissed. Get out of my sight.”  
Striding past the lieutenant nearly gawking at him was the worst part, struggling to hide the ashamed flush in his features, keeping his eyes low to the floor. He had to puke, but he could not do it there, not in front of them. Part of him was deeply afraid of what might happen if he did. His boots felt heavy on the boardwalk, shambling off into a small swampy clearing beside the camp to avoid being spotted by patrol as he emptied his guts into the mud.  
Harry Flynn snapped awake, laying on his side and finding himself face to face with Nathan Drake yet again like every nightmare he has had since nearly being executed. Only this time, Drake was snoring peacefully, sprawled on his stomach on his side of the bed and head turned to his direction. The motel in Cancun. Harry’s jackhammering heart was easing up a bit, his environment not the tents in Borneo but somewhere safe and soothing. But that did not stop the crippling nausea, the sour turning in his stomach, the acidic taste on the back of his tongue. Oh Jesus, not again. He did not want to wake Nathan, really and truly, but when his weight left the mattress with deliberate speed and urgency the younger man stirred and mumbled. Flynn did not glance back, the bathroom door closing behind him before he threw himself down to the floor in front of the toilet. Hot and cold waves made him sweat and shake as he vomited his meagre meal, auburn hair hanging in front of his eyes and sticking to his face. This is hell. Maybe I’m paying for my sins now. I thought things would get better. They’re not. I can’t sleep unless someone physically holds me. I can’t eat without puking. This is not living.  
A soft light-fingered knock broke the silence of his gags, Flynn closed his eyes as he rested his forehead on his folded arms, propped on the toilet seat. No. Make him go away and leave me alone. Just let me deal with this in peace. It’s humiliating enough. When he was able to breathe, Flynn lifted his head enough to speak. “Go away, Nate,” Harry groaned, his voice hoarse from the retching. “Just go away.”  
For once, Nathan done as he was told, presumably heading back to bed, Flynn could hear him shuffle away. It allowed Harry the privacy to brood in silence, palming the sweat off his face and slicking the hair back from his eyes. If I could die anywhere, it would be here. Cancun beats Nepal, any day of the fuckin’ week. Nate wouldn’t forgive me, but he’ll eventually move on. He’s got Sully, he’s got the chase, he’s got the girls, he’s got Drake’s blood. What do I have? Anything I might have had was stolen from me, after I sold everything else. I had my fuckin’ pride, I had that much. Now look at me. Lazarevic is dead. He killed me too, it just took so much longer. At that instant, Harry Flynn decided he wanted to die. It was no longer an idle wish gnawing away at his insides, he felt he needed to act or be forced to endure this agonizing shame for the rest of his life.  
Harry Flynn never considered suicide often in his life, regardless of how shitty it turned out despite his best efforts. But Flynn was convinced he had sunk as low as he ever did before. As he spat bile from his mouth into the bowl, Harry wished he dropped the grenade. He wished it blew him to pieces and that he was gone and no longer enduring this daily, perpetual torment. His physical wellbeing was improving steadily, but he felt he was falling apart. The love of his life was gone and abandoned him. He sold everything he owned to accommodate the latest job, which nearly ended his life as well as it did his career. He was hoping for a big pay-out, but it was a gamble that he lost. The reason why he never put his own pistol in his mouth up until Shambhala was because he was hoping to save Chloe from a madman. All his efforts were for naught. The madman was dead, Chloe was safe, but in the end he was a castaway. Other than Nathan Drake, the man he tried to murder, no one was going to mourn his passing. So it’s decided. When Nathan’s asleep tomorrow night, I’ll do it. I can’t do this anymore. I’m not as strong as you think, Nate. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t.  
Flynn flushed the toilet and lumbered out, feeling numbed to the suggestion to himself that he was ready to kill himself. Nathan was in bed, eyes closed and breathing even, all appearances of sleep with the lights out. The older thief realized his skills in stealth were rusty or not as intact as he thought, slipping into bed soundlessly but he felt a warm arm snake up his side and rest on his hip.  
“Hey,” Nathan murmured, his voice foggy with sleep. “Are you okay?”  
I want to die, Nate, I am actively planning my suicide without your knowledge and I’m sorry for that. “Fine,” Flynn whispered back tensely, his body unyielding to the touch, muscles taut. “Go to sleep.”  
Flynn expected that to be it, but Nathan Drake could be deeply attuned to his companions’ emotions when aware of it. The younger man wiggled into his back, the arm now folding him into a hug. “Another nightmare?” Drake asked softly, lips shaping against his shoulder. “Wanna talk about it?”  
“Fuck no,” Flynn growled gently, his voice gruff from the acid. Drake, if I tell you everything, you’ll be disgusted by me. I can’t even be honest with you, of all people. That reality hurt, a deep ache in his core.  
Flynn spent much of his youth alone, but he did eventually have people take him in out of pity. Running the streets after his mother’s murder, he spent maybe a year at the most sleeping on the streets before he was sent to a ‘boy’s home’. He met some good people there, good friends, but he lost touch with all over the years. After running away out of search for something greater, a grand pursuit for riches and wealth and happiness, he found himself at Cancun. He met one father-figure in his life, one kind older man that taught him skills without seeking rewards, but Flynn’s own stubborn nature and wanderlust made him leave that older man behind. Flynn always wondered what would have happened if he stayed, what could have been. But Harry could never really share his past with the older man, he could not tell him the trauma that haunted him as a boy and a young man. He knew that man cared for him, but that was damn-near twenty years ago. Harry Flynn focused on making a name for himself, to live his own life. They lost touch after he left, mostly because he was ashamed of himself for not accepting any kind of compassion. He felt he was not deserving of it.  
Nathan did not say anything else, he took that as a message to let sleeping dogs lie. Harry simply lay awake, debating on whether or not to leave a note.  
~~~````~~~  
It took two days instead of one, but Harry Flynn was where he intended to be, sitting down in his jeans on the wet sand of the beach in the late hours at night. He hid his intentions and snuck out both nights, the first night he had to pickpocket cash from drunk tourists. It took him the whole night to gather the amount of money he needed, to creep back into the motel room before dawn without being caught was tricky. It was the final night, early in the work week, the sandy beaches desolate and only showing signs of the busy bustle of the day. It was near midnight. It took him an hour to write his suicide note, but it was hardly half the page of the blank notepad left in the room. It was addressed only to the one that would actually miss him and mourn him.  
Nathan,  
You done all you can for me and I can’t begin to thank you enough. You gave me the only comfort I’ve had in a long time even though I don’t deserve it. But I can’t do this struggling to live anymore. I hope you will forgive me someday. Take care of Chloe for me.  
Your old friend, Flynn  
Flynn thought it would have been cathartic to write out some final thoughts, some hidden last intimacies addressed to one and one only. But there was much he had say and no courage to write it on paper. But that’s just me, right? Coward. Taking the coward’s way out. Harry wanted to write how he truly felt about Drake, the fact that he made a lonely, broken man feel accepted for a time and feel even loved. And Harry so desperately thirsted for love, perhaps more than treasure or riches. Flynn had gotten to hold treasure, gotten to touch true immeasurable wealth, but love? It only fleetingly teased him before dancing out of grasp. He never even gotten to feel it from his birth family, only one sick mother too strung out to love herself, let alone her only child.  
Now, Harry Flynn was listening to the endless roar of waves, water lapping at his toes, soaking into his jeans. Night was the only time he dared come out to the beach anymore, when he was alone instead of surrounded by sunbathers and fellow swimmers. He was wearing one of his old t-shirts, the one he first wore when he met Drake while with Chloe to propose their plan. It seemed a lifetime ago, it hung off his bony frame. His mother’s ring was now clutched in one fist, still hanging around his neck, a newly, illegally purchased and freshly loaded 9 mm pistol gripped in the other. The water was cool, refreshing, the salt stinging his healing wounds below the hips. It helped him feel alive for a minute, to really absorb it all and truly enjoy it in its beauty one last time. “Suppose this is it, mate,” Flynn whispered under his breath, to himself rather than anyone in particular. “Funny, I was sure I was dead in Nepal. But I was just delaying the inevitable.”  
He stared down at the gun in hand, a rather battered and rough looking thing that no doubt traded many owners. It was hard to imagine a service or funeral, he had spent all the money he had, all stolen, on the gun. He had no life insurance, no family, only one friend worth mentioning. Who the hell would show to your funeral, you dumb shit? Chloe is gone, she won’t find out about your death until she gets back on the grid, that girl is terrible with cellphones. You have no friends. Only people that feel guilt and pity for you. And who will show up? Name one. Victor goddamn Sullivan? No. Not even blonde pretty Elena. Nate will be the only one there and it’ll be a lonely, pathetic service and a cold hole in the ground. Tears burned his eyes, surprising him as they rolled down his cheeks. He did not bother swiping them away, no one was there to witness them and shame him for it. A soft sob was lumped in his throat, working its way up. Fuckin’ pathetic. That’s what all this is. That’s what I am. A bloody pathetic nobody.  
Flynn forced himself to look up to the waves, the churning, calm waters of the ocean now murky ink instead of crystal blue. A round in the chamber, he brought the muzzle to his right temple, finger primed for the trigger. As his fingertip plucked it daringly, his heart jumping in his chest, he almost compulsively closed his eyes. Almost. The ocean was the last thing he wanted to see. Alright. Time to go. I’m done here. He wanted to pull the trigger. He could feel it under his index finger, worn trigger grooved underneath. Harry felt his hand shake, but it did not drop down.  
“Oh my God, Flynn, where did you get a gun?”  
Jesus fucking Christ, Nathan, why did you come?  
Flynn did not look behind him, already aware of the younger man approaching him, the waves having covered the sound of his creeping. Frustration and anger threatened a scream to bubble out instead of the sob. He did not lower the pistol, the muzzle still flat to his temple. “Go away, Nate… please.”  
“No, not this time,” Drake reasoned, crunching of gravel and sand alerting him he was close, nearly right behind him within reach. “Put the gun down, pal. Please put it down. Come on, man. This isn’t fair.”  
Fair? Flynn almost snorted, the mild chuckle rather out of place despite tears streaming from his eyes. All the while, his finger was primed on the trigger and ready to pull. “Life isn’t fair, mate. None of it is fuckin’ fair. What happened to me wasn’t fuckin’ fair. But it happens. I can’t do this anymore, mate. Truly. I’m so tired. Just let me rest.”  
“No, you can’t, that’s not fucking fair!” Nathan bellowed at his back, the gun yanked out of his grasp before Flynn could even indignantly react. Harry whirled on all fours, enraged and ready to kick Nathan’s dick concave but found himself frozen in seeing Nathan crouched down with large, swollen tears coursing down his own features. The pistol was being rapidly emptied into the sand, ammunition loosely deposited with a practiced, angry flicker of the young American’s wrist. Harry never seen Nathan cry before, he would come pretty close at times but never actually shed a tear. Now the younger man’s breath was hitching, unrestrained, betrayed blue-green eyes glaring and so deeply hurt. He knew that look, but never to that magnitude. Even when Flynn had a gun on Nathan while at Shambhala’s gates or pulled the rope up before he could escape at the museum, he never looked like that. “You can’t! I followed you into everything, and no matter what you did to me I forgave you! I saw you nearly die so many times the last few weeks, I thought I would lose you. I tried so hard, Flynn! I carried you back out of there bleeding, I thought you were going to die and I … couldn’t allow it. You stopped breathing, goddammit! I fought for your life! For weeks! WEEKS, Flynn! I watched you come out of it, heal up, and I watched you go through hell. You’re still in hell, I know, man. But if you won’t fight for your life, I will. You plan on killing yourself, you better have a plan to take me with you because I’m not leaving you. I promised you that. You are not leaving me alone, not after all this.”  
Still furious, Drake whipped back his arm and Flynn compulsively flinched backwards, but the pistol only harmlessly sailed overhead into the ocean surf. Harry could feel his heart hammering in his chest, that confusing maelstrom of emotions surging, Drake’s uncontrolled yelling scaring him more than it should. His instinctual need to protect himself was overwhelming, damp, sand-coated hands going to his ears to help cope with the anxiety. Flynn felt helpless, deeply lost and agitated. He just wanted Drake to stop screaming at him. For a delirious second, it was not Drake’s voice at all, it was a dead Serbian warlord’s. “Stop…” Flynn moaned weakly, his voice very small and unable to contain his anxiety from leaking into the tone. “Just stop… Zoran, please, I didn’t mean it, please stop…”  
Nathan Drake’s fury and frustration vanished, eyes large with heartbreak and still streaming. Nathan was biting his lip, hard, but Flynn could hear the younger man’s chest hitching with waiting sobs. Before Flynn could correct himself, apologize for the slip and even acknowledge what he said, Nathan lunged and folded him tight into a crushing hug. Harry went to shove him off, push away, but Nathan refused and nestled his face into the top of Flynn’s head. “I’m so fucking sorry, Harry,” Nathan groaned, weeping openly now. “I’m so sorry… Lazarevic is dead, Flynn. He’s dead. He’s not coming back. You’re safe here now, with me. Just please stay with me, Flynn. Don’t go. I can’t lose you, I can’t deal with this again. I can’t lose you too. I …care about you, pal. I can’t just… bury you and move on. I won’t. I’m not going to let you do it.”  
“Drake, get off,” Flynn snarled into the younger man’s chest, almost writhing out of his embrace but Nathan’s muscled arms only tightened, pinning him in place.  
“No!”  
Harry Flynn could not take it anymore. There were rare times he lost his temper, when his fury finally boils over his discipline and now he could not carefully contain his rage. He used his elbow as a battering ram into Nathan’s ribs, a mean streak of satisfaction incited by the ‘homph’ of air expelled from the young man’s lungs. Drake did not relent until Flynn tried again, finally releasing him. Blinded by tears, Harry lunged to his feet and meant to run, anywhere at all. But the moment his stance straightened and he went to bolt, his head was engulfed in crippling dizziness, crashing to his knees into the surf. Weakly, Flynn’s scarred hand went to his chest, over his fluttering heart as the palpitations made him want to suck in a breath but his lungs were stubbornly refusing. Shit. I think I’m having a heart attack. Isn’t that a bitch? Fuckin’ ironic. The other arm locked to stop himself from face-planting into the crawling waves, colour leeched from his vision. There was a hot stitch over his heart, right under his armpit, shooting down his arm and elbow. I think… I think I’m gonna pass out.  
“Harry!” Nathan hoarsely cried out, still heaving for air. “Flynn, hold on!”  
Flynn did not have to look up to know the younger man was clawing his way over through the wet sand and mud, shuffling his knees along behind. As Flynn managed a shuddering cough, he felt Nathan’s wet arm slither around his back and hook around his waist to help him up if he had to. “Piss off, Nate,” Harry panted between gasps, his very skin seeming to cringe from the touch. “Just let me alone.”  
“Flynn, you’re more of an idiot than I am sometimes,” Nathan grumbled, his tone still wounded. “You’re not alone anymore, you moron. I’m here with you, okay? Come on, let’s get you back to the room.”  
His head still swimming with delirious dizziness, Flynn shook his head. He was not going back to that little sad dingy hole. He just felt sick, his heartrate slowing and the stitch lessening, knowing now this was only what happened when he over-strained himself too quickly. It had been a while since he had an attack that bad. Pot calling the kettle black, asshole. How many ways do I have to spell it out for you? “I’m not going back, Nate.”  
“Oh, to hell you aren’t!” Nathan hoarsely barked again, unable to help the outburst. “Just stop this, Flynn. You want to know why I stayed with you? Because I couldn’t stand the thought of something like this happening. I know you don’t have anything or anyone left. I want to help, Flynn. Why is that so hard to accept? I meant it when I said I want to help you. I’m not lying to you, I’m not saying something you want to hear, I really mean it. Maybe you’ll eventually find something, another place to stay, maybe a family, but for now, you have me. That’s all we need, right? That’s all we needed before all this mess, why not depend on each other again like old times?”  
Because this isn’t old times, mate. We’re not the same boys we were back then. “Nathan, shut up and look at me,” Flynn stated, his tone blank, his feelings numbed. “Really look. You know how much has changed. You’ve seen it. I’ve dealt with it. I’m ruined, mate. I have nothing to give. How am I going to … to find a woman and start a family willing to look past all this, past the marks? To get a job? To even… look in a mirror or reflection or another person’s stare? I… I can’t even fuckin’ run. I won’t be able to climb for shit. What kind of fuckin’ thief can’t do their job? I’m retired, mate. I’m a write-off. A burn-out. Every now and then one of those big explorers gets one job that nearly kills them and they retire. And then they grow old and shrivel up and die. That’s not my style. But this… isn’t living. I’m not alive anymore, Nate. Zoran killed me. It just takes time for the rest of me to catch up.”  
“Stop saying his name,” Nathan muttered softly, scooping Flynn up from under the arms and boosting him to his feet. Flynn swayed, so the younger man wordlessly guided Harry by the wrist to his back, helping him up onto his shoulders. It was an improvised piggy-back, supporting Flynn’s legs on either side by clutching his thighs with deliberate tenderness. “Come on. We’re going back. You’re tired, I’m tired… We’ll figure this out in the morning.  
For once, Flynn did not argue. He was exhausted, resting his forehead into Nathan’s shoulder, loosely slinging his bony arms around Drake’s neck. I suppose there is no deadline. Fine, Natey-boy. You got me for another night.  
~~~````~~~

If Harry Flynn hoped for privacy when they got back to the room, he did not get any. Nathan would not leave him alone for no more than a few minutes at a time, helping Flynn rinse the sand off in the tub before getting him into bed. Flynn did not want to sleep, the frustrated and trapped feeling was back, forced to endure an endless loop of his torment when he tried to even rest. Instead, angry, forlorn, he stared down at his intended suicide note and found himself already hating it. He was waiting for Drake to finish in the bathroom before clambering into bed and shutting off the lights. Why couldn’t I write that I love this stupid kid? He always used to say I was like a brother, I used to think the same. Then I used to want him, more than a brother. How could I leave that burden on him, anyway? It would be breaking his heart all over again. Assuming he feels the same. You know what they say about the word ‘assume’, Flynn. Don’t let it make an ass out of you and me.  
Harry did not look up as Nathan shut off the lights and clambered onto the mattress on his side, dipping behind Flynn as the British man lay to face the wall. The notepad was clutched closer to his chest, not wishing Nathan to see. A warm arm hooked around his waist and Drake pressed into his back, becoming a habitual position between them. It used to be an unwanted invasion of Flynn’s personal space, but now he was growing to find it soothing, almost craving it if he really wanted to admit it to himself. “Why did you decide to make it tonight?” Nathan whispered into his shoulder, his preferred spot to nestle into.  
“This isn’t exactly a great topic for pillow talk, mate,” Flynn murmured, unable to help the snarky remark. Come on, Nate. I’m tired. Cut it out with the prying.  
“I’m serious,” Drake persisted, voice still soft. “Why tonight? Why there? Did… you even have a plan?”  
“Not in the traditional sense,” Flynn hissed. “I never wrote it down. I… thought about it two days ago. I just am so tired of this, Nate. I’m tired of being afraid all the time, even when I’m supposed to be safe now. I was only able to get the gun tonight… seems to be the fastest, easiest, fool-proof way, yeah?”  
“Other than a damn grenade,” Drake grumbled darkly.  
“Yeah, other than that…”  
There was a moment of hesitation, silence between them, just listening to each other’s breathing in the stillness. Flynn was sure the conversation was over, that they were just going to drift off to sleep. But Nathan startled him in speaking again, lips still hushed into his shoulder. “How come if you felt this way, you didn’t drop the grenade? Even… before we got in the chamber, if you didn’t want to live.”  
Harry gave a slow, long exhale, growing agitated despite his weariness. I don’t really know the answer to that one, mate. “Nathan,” Flynn sighed at last, not knowing how he was going to explain his darkest thoughts to someone that did not begin to understand what that kind of suffering was like. “I didn’t want to die then. Not really. I suppose… it all didn’t sink in yet. I was still in survival-mode. Lazarevic was still alive, I had no idea where anyone was… I was alone. And facing that alone with a fuckin’ grenade was not my idea of an ending. And if I dropped it… Nate, if I dropped it before anyone I knew got there, how would they know it was me? It… it would have been a mess. I needed to be seen, before I had to go, if that makes sense. But you took it out of my hands, so there’s that. Hope you rammed it up Zoran’s arse.”  
Flynn felt Nathan’s lips curl into a faint smile on his shoulder, against some of the fresher scars. Why do you insist on being so close to me, mate? Why do you keep touching me when most people wouldn’t? I’m tainted. I’m filth. Unfortunately, Flynn did not share the expression, keeping his face a neutral mask as he faced the wall. It was exhausting faking friendliness and grins when he felt so wrong on the inside.  
“Hey, pal?” Nathan whispered again and Flynn was seriously doubting if he was going to be able to sleep at all. “Don’t get cranky… But I called Sully before I left to look for you.”  
Oh ferfuckssake. “What?” Flynn’s tone was not necessarily a question, more as a one-worded pissed-off statement that spoke volumes about his feelings on the matter.  
“You disappeared and you left a damn suicide note. What the hell did you expect me to do? I called Sully and he’s on his way back. If we leave Cancun, we’re all going together. But right now, you can’t be left alone. I’m sorry, Flynn.”  
Nathan, you asshole. Why the hell would you go and do that? “Call him back,” Flynn growled, unable to contain the rippling of anger.  
“Flynn—“  
“No, call him back,” Harry insisted, not wishing for an interruption. “Call him back, say you found me on the beach with a bottle of tequila or Jack and all is good. I’m serious, Nate, I’m not okay with this.”  
“Like I could lie to Sully,” Drake snorted, giving his head a shake. “That guy can sniff out a lie for miles. Come on. You need help. But I can’t keep my eye on you all the time, this was too damn close a call. I think we need to get away from the beach. I know you feel at home here, but home can be anywhere for guys like us. Granted, you’ll take some time getting better, but I have no plans. We can be partners, right? Like old times.”  
Flynn hated the sound of everything Drake proposed but he was in no position to argue. As impulsive as it was, Harry knew his suicide attempt was going to be met with scrutiny in the eyes of the more mentally-stable men charged with his care. “I’m not becoming a fuckin’ tourist, Drake,” Flynn snarled, the thought of travelling with no real goal was laughable. “You want me to tail you two while you go wild on the kind of adventures I’d kill to do again? No. I’d rather you send me to an invalid home.”  
“You’re not permanently maimed, Flynn,” Nathan sighed, gently running a flat palm up Flynn’s expanse of spine, across the ripple of scars. “You’re in bad shape right now, but you’re going to be better. If you just want to sit in the hotel room and be a stick in the mud, fine. But I’m not leaving you to kill yourself. I said I care about you, I damn-well mean it.”  
You can care about a dog too, that doesn’t mean a thing, mate. “Shut up, Nathan,” Flynn only could murmur into his pillow, clutching onto the ring looped on the necklace he kept dear. “Go to sleep.”  
~~~````~~~  
It was raining for the first time in a long time for Flynn, the next morning waking up to a grey and miserable day that steadily poured sheets of precipitation. It lashed the windows and made him tense harshly. As a native of London, Britain, Harry Flynn was no stranger to rain. That did not change the fact he hated it, which is why he fled his home country the moment he had the chance. It reminded him too much of his childhood, of his mother, of the nights where he was desperate for a place warm and dry to sleep. Certain unwanted memories seemed ready to spring into play, especially when his mother’s ring was tight in his grasp. Like the time when he was only four years old, terrified of the thunderstorm raging outside his bedroom window, he fled to his mother’s room. She was irritable, hungover, aiming mean-spirited slaps at his face until he was forced to leave. He made it a point to not go to her for comfort a year or so after that, he was not the fastest learner when it came to his mother. Or the memory of his time on the streets, sleeping in leaky dumpsters or squalid abandoned buildings if he felt safe enough, often it was not. Gangs and homeless squatters were not kind to relinquish their territory to a skinny street kid, he had seen the depths of addiction on other human beings and what it can make them do. He was determined to never fall into that trap, and so far, he remained unscathed other than his unfortunate birth circumstance.  
Another blast of ocean wind brought another crashing flare of rain against the glass, Flynn could not help but coil himself smaller and shudder. That disturbed his bed-partner, still half-tangled around him, legs entwined with Harry’s. Nathan uttered a soft lazy yawn, actually peeking over Flynn’s shoulder to meet his eyes as if checking if he was awake. “Hey buddy,” Drake murmured softly, returning to his spot at Flynn’s back. “Wassup? You’re shaking.”  
You don’t need to know why, you nosey shit. Flynn was more than a little annoyed with the constant prying. He never had so much of his life laid out bare to someone, and yet it was not enough. Drake wanted to know everything about him. “Cold,” he lied instead, forcing himself to stretch and try to appear more at ease. “Drake, riddle me this. Would Sullivan call anyone else about my slip-up?” That question was nagging at him the moment Nathan admitted to calling his mentor, enraged at the invasion of privacy yet again.  
“I doubt it,” Nathan yawned, idly extending both arms above his head before letting them pile onto Harry, a lazy hug. “Hey, it’s a new day. Let’s not think about that, alright? I’m gonna grab a shower, okay? I’m leaving the bathroom door open, Flynn. I’m serious, you try to sneak out, I’m going to hear you. Just hang tight, watch tv, entertain yourself.”  
Harry tried to ignore the pang of resentment, not enjoying the thought of being essentially babysat. He hid it, however, the way he knew best: catty jokes and flirting. “Oh really,” Flynn grumbled, shoving Nathan’s arms off. “If I didn’t know you, I’d think you were trying to be a tease and give me a show. Now hurry up and get on with it, you floozy.”  
He did not have to see Nathan’s face as he got up to know he was blushing, the lobes of his ears were already pink. “Yeah, yeah, you’d love it. I’m serious, Flynn. Not playing around. Rain or shine, you sneak out again, I’m tackling you in the street.”  
“Drake, keep it up, I’m going to flush while you’re in there,” Flynn muttered, piling pillows to partially sit up and get comfortable as he waited. “Maybe if you hurry, we can get something to eat, yeah?” Harry was nowhere close to hungry, but he was willing to distract the younger man with food if it meant getting him off his back long enough to breathe.  
“Gotcha, right,” Nathan chirped almost cheerily, keeping his word on leaving the bathroom door open, much to Flynn’s distaste. But, surprisingly shy, Drake actually undressed in the shower, out of sightline and taking a towel with him. Not that Flynn minded. It would just be a sore reminder of what he craved and being unfit for it.  
The television channels were all still in Spanish, so Harry took to snooping. Absently, he pawed through the nightstand on Nathan’s side, fingers catching a leather-bound cover. Flynn froze, a coy grin curling his lips. Nathan Drake’s journal. Well, well. What do we have here? Ever since he had known Drake, the young man had a habit of pocketing a journal regardless of where he was or what the job entailed. Whenever given a spare minute or opportunity, Nathan would whip it out with a weathered pencil, mostly preferring sketches to writings. He was not terribly secretive about his musings, but Flynn never had the chance to flick through the pages himself and certainly not alone without Nathan staring at him for gauging his reactions for his artwork. Ignoring any little guilty pangs and going with the thrill instead, Flynn sat back with the small book in hand and snapped on the night-lamp.  
The first two pages were the contacts Nathan wanted to keep in touch with, Flynn felt a weak smile when he remembered the time he had gleefully given his number to Drake, pleased to find a like-minded thief to get into shenanigans with. The expression changed when he noticed how it had been crossed out, running a fingertip over the paper. Deeply embedded, hastily and angrily marked. There it is. Proof. I knew I’d find something about me in here, especially on what I did to him. I’m sorry, mate. Really.  
Near his own was another crossed out name, Eddie Raja. Flynn could not help but suppress a small chuckle there. Drake and Eddie never did like each other. Always with the damn name-calling. Too similar in personalities maybe. Poor Eddie. Heard how he bit the dust. Nathan had relayed to him everything that happened regarding the fabled El Dorado, not a city but a single effigy statue that was actually a sarcophagus to a cursed mummy. If Nathan did not meticulously record everything in his journal and had trinkets to match his incredible, unbelievable story, Flynn would have said it was all a heaping pile of bullshit. Harry almost wished he was there to see it himself. Almost. Hearing about those strange naked, feral Descendants that crawled at lightning speeds on all fours and attacked with teeth and claws freaked him out. Eddie found out the hard way how deadly those fangs could be. Well, better you than me, Eddie ol’ boy. Maybe I’ll see ya around soon enough.  
Flipping idly through some of the pages, he stopped to admire Nathan’s artistic handiwork. The vibrantly coloured depiction of the Cintamani Stone in legend made him pause, rather captured by the beauty of it. The photograph of Drake and Sully grinning, fresh from their previous adventure made him smile along, unable to help it with such obvious joy and triumph there. A golden doubloon, stamped with a Nazi mark that Nate found in an abandoned U-boat in the middle of the jungle. Pieces of the pamphlet Flynn had given Drake were stapled in the pages, as well as a photo of the lantern they broke and found the fragments of resin in that glowed the most gorgeous blue Harry ever seen. Drake’s own humor scattered the pages in the doodles, such as Sullivan’s common facial expressions with goofy caricatures featuring mainly eyebrows and a moustache, a ‘creep’ meter on the things that freaked Nathan out, little scribbles of jokes here and there. There were a lot of other texts and notes hidden amongst the pages, excerpts from Marco Polo’s journal, handwritten clips, yellowed parchment and a chilling depiction of one of the yeti guardians Flynn had first seen before they realized it was a mere costume. Flynn recognized a lot of the puzzles and passages himself, feeling a little pang of resentment with a curious blend of jealousy. Excerpts from Sir Frances Drake’s journals and writings, the pieces to the puzzle that were missing. Here Lazarebitch is riding my ass about my lack of progress and Nate had all the answers, right fuckin’ here in his hands. Every place we got fuckin’ stuck, like that damn monastery, here Drake knew exactly the combination or code to get in. No wonder he made it so far. Lucky little shit.  
The two solid pages filled with women’s numbers from assorted cities across the globe brought the jealousy again, much stronger than he would like to admit to himself. Flynn was a flirt and that much was true. But when he committed in a relationship, he gave it his all. He was loyal. The prominence of Elena’s photo near the top proved Nate’s fixation with the girl, but there was also a unique cluster of dried flowers to represent each woman, the many other numbers. Sorry Elena love, seems Natey-boy has a problem with commitment. Or a wandering eye as well as wandering feet. Flynn noticed Chloe’s own name was near the bottom, the resentment back again. That asshole. He could have told me they had history. I should have known. The look on his face when he saw her at the bar, I should have fuckin’ known. How could you have been so stupid, Flynn? They both played you for a fool.  
Angrily, Flynn flicked through a few more doodles of statues, of the phurba dagger that turned out to be a key, of the numerous symbols regarding the legend. Curiously, Nathan also noticed the skeletons from Marco Polo’s crew had black teeth. Flynn pondered the significance of this for many long weeks after the discovery. Hardly matters now, doesn’t it? The Tree is gone, Shambhala is gone, all that resin is pretty much gone. No point. Harry flipped through, noticing he was near the end of their journey to Shambhala through the pages. One of the children from the Nepalese village was drawn remarkably well on one, a flag from Tibet stapled to the other. There was a drawn depiction of the Tree effigy Harry had seared into his memory, noticing Drake’s eagle-eye missed many details. The height of the stone and the size was wrong, the branches along the ceiling crudely drawn. He did not draw it there, he’s doing it from memory. That’s because he was focused on you, Flynn. Don’t be an idiot. How could he really focus on that when you were bleeding all over the place? But to Harry’s surprise, the journal had several more weathered, used pages. The hell? What else did he see or do since then that occupied him like this? Drake was not a relentless journalist about his thoughts or experiences, he was picture-oriented and preferred a subject.  
Flipping to the next page answered his question, Flynn’s puffy green eyes widening. It’s me. He’s been drawing me. For… weeks? Harry had assumed that the plain absence of himself in Nathan’s journal up until this point was due to his betrayal, and perhaps that was true. The first image was striking enough, fresh from his rescue and after surgery, no doubt sketched by Nathan perched at his side. It was life-like, startlingly so, shading painstakingly outlining bruises like shadows. Flynn realized it was how he looked before the rapid weight loss and before the stress taxed his health, still a world away from how he felt now. After all, that was less than 24 hours after his near-fatal injury. The posture was almost like that of a classic painting, the delicate crane of the neck, the almost blissfully portrayed sleep. It was as if Nathan was purposely ignoring the prevalence of the medical standpoint, trying to capture only the subject in essence.  
There almost was a time-progression taking place with each page, Flynn slow progress with recovery, or as he saw it, his lengthened suffering. He got thinner, but he was now appearing somewhat alive in the images, eyes opened in some. But the image was different than what he saw in the mirror. Nathan did not get the eyes right. That’s how your eyes maybe used to look. Sly, smug, but confident all at once. Maybe Nathan did not want to draw that sad reality. Maybe it was easier to pretend otherwise.  
One small drawn image was a close-up of Flynn’s mother’s ring, the one he would adamantly protect but loathed at the same time. Little scribbles indicated the colour of the stone, a blood-red ruby that Nathan actually concluded was a real gem. Huh. If Nate can’t spot that as a fake, then it must be a real stone. Looks like Mum didn’t con me with a fake ring. Question is, where did she get it?  
There were traces of Drake’s inconsolable rage in some images, one actually depicting Harry’s exposed naked back. Flynn’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. The grid-mark of criss-crossed scars was articulated accurately onto paper. The brand-like gory signature on his ass was nowhere to be seen, maybe too shameful for normally such a cheery medium. Flynn did not blame him. He was not sure how he could handle seeing that even on paper, in a drawing.  
There was a viciously drawn depiction of Zoran Lazarevic himself, not the terrifying, towering beast of a man he was familiar with but bloodied, beaten and in the process of being bludgeoned by brutish large shapes no doubt the Guardians. It was almost too cruel even for Drake, to sketch such a level of violence was not him. But considering what the warlord was personally responsible for… Harry did not blame him at all. In fact, he got a secret little thrill from the picture, smirking to himself as he tried to take in every detail. Oh, I really do hope that’s how it happened. That would have been a huge dose of karma. Let him feel helpless and small for once, the asshole.  
There was one last picture, tucked behind that page. Flynn felt the heat rise to his face as he found it, cheeks flushing with a strange, excited stirring in his gut. It was another image of Flynn, another sleeping subject, this time sprawled into Nathan’s own midsection. The doodle was an odd point of view, almost a snap-shot of the quiet intimacy there. Flynn’s cheek was pressed to Drake’s chest, snuggled in tightly, his own hand tucked protectively close to his features. Harry’s legs were almost straddling Drake’s, to get in as close as possible. So, he drew this of me that night I passed out on him. The same morning we woke up to Sullivan in the room. Jesus, what if Sullivan has a clue about Nate’s … what, feelings? Does he really have feelings for me? No. Pity, yeah. Empathy, sure. Maybe friendship feelings, okay. But… real romantic feelings? Flynn found himself almost flattered, but mainly just sad for his friend. Poor kid. He might be as desperate for love as I am. Seems he crushes on anyone looking in his direction. I mean, I got feelings for him, but I’m so screwed up I have no idea where to start with that. I’m so broken, it wouldn’t take much for me to fall for anyone who is nice to me. But why would he feel that way for me? I mean… I know I was ruggedly handsome before. But that was before. Why now?  
“Hey, you still alive in there?” Drake’s voice rang out, startling Flynn into nearly dropping the journal on his chest, hands fumbling as the book almost wanted to levitate out from gravity and his clumsiness. Catching it, he replaced it hurriedly back in the nightstand as he found it.  
“Hurry up, Nate,” Flynn answered back, trying to hide the nervousness in his voice. He hoped Nathan would not notice him reacting bizarrely with his discovery. He had to whip out his acting skills again, not a true gift but one he honed over years. “I would like some hot water left.”  
~~~````~~~  
The pouring rain never stopped, flaring up Nathan Drake’s stubborn protectiveness much to Harry Flynn’s utter annoyance and dismay. The American actually insisted that Harry, a Native Brit, should stay in and avoid the rain in case it would worsen his condition. Flynn would have been disgruntled enough to argue but the chilly downpour outside was not at all tempting. Such a cheap motel shithole did not have room service for dining, leading them to order in. Cancun did not offer a whole lot of variety. Drake was in the middle of pondering it out and Harry was soaking in the tub when the motel door banged open and Flynn could feel his heart damn-near fly out of his chest. His damp hand flew up to the hammering under his ribs, hearing a familiar and irritable voice growl out. It was hard not to, the bathroom door was open on Drake’s insistence in supervision.  
“Goddammit! I thought the point of Mexico is that we don’t have to deal with this kind of weather!” Victor Sullivan. Harry could feel dread sink in, slowly lying flat in the tub and wishing to disappear under the thin foam of bubbles. Shit. He got here faster than I thought.  
“Hey, it was nice before you came into town,” Drake complained loudly, but not without his trademark dry humor. “You must have brought it with you from the north. How are things, Sully?”  
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Sully snarled again, voice lowering. “We need to get going. Ideally, tires up and in the sky within the hour. Seems a certain cartel knows we’re in town and they’re still sore about the deals about those fake paintings.”  
“Aw, Sully, seriously? That was almost five years ago! Is there such thing as a vacation without getting chased out of town?” Nathan whined, but by the rustling taking place, he was already packing their meagre belongings. “How many cities are we either banned from or being chased out of again?”  
“Nate, I stopped counting after the second trip in Montreal. Hurry up. And Flynn, is he—“  
“Fine, he’s in the tub right now,” Nathan quickly interrupted, not wishing to broach the subject at this point in time when they had bigger problems. “Hey, Flynn? Time to get going, pal.”  
With a heavy sigh, Flynn pulled the plug and hauled himself up, quick to wrap a towel around his waist before stepping out into view of the main bedroom. He was not at all pleased about the disturbance but if there was one matter he did not want to contend with, it was the cartel. The levels of savage butchery and cruelty they used was notorious even among the criminals. Seems we have to put breakfast off. That’s fine. I’m already sick of this place, anyway. “I’m coming, keep your panties on,” Harry grumbled, already stepping into a pair of jeans and hefting them up under the towel, before letting the damp material fall to the floor and puddle at his feet. “Hand me a shirt, yeah? Freezing my arse off.”  
The trip out of Cancun was deeply tense until they were in the air, but otherwise uneventful. Harry’s deep, dark little fears of being kidnapped by the Mexican cartel was unfounded. Thank God. Wouldn’t that be my luck? As if tangling with a Serbian war criminal wasn’t bad enough. Sullivan had the sense to borrow a car with a roof instead of an open-top jeep, but they did not bother with even returning it to its rightful owner, leaving it at the airstrip. Now half-sprawled on the same checkered-plaid couch they sat in before, Flynn was regarding Nathan with a bored glance, not a clue where he was headed and finding he did not particularly care. His right leg was hooked over Nathan’s knee, nearly reclining as he sat sideways, the left tucked up under his body. When Flynn got bored, he got restless. Bu when he got restless, it brought Nathan’s attention. Already, the younger man was watching him with questioning aquamarine eyes, brow quirking upwards inquiringly.  
“Wassup?” Drake asked over the drone of the engine, often they did not speak at all to stop from repeating themselves if the other misheard.  
Flynn only shrugged, more than annoyed with his fluttering anxieties always brewing deep in his core. Trying to be nonchalant and naïve about what Flynn saw in Drake’s journals was never what he would practice. Usually, he would have been open in his approach on Drake, asking even loud enough for Sully to overhear if he dared it. What happened to you, Flynn? I know what happened. Lazarevic happened. Like it or not, he’s a part of who you are now. It was a disturbing, even repulsive thought but it held true all the same. A person can leave a mark on another human being like a natural disaster can on a landscape. It can scar them indefinitely, shaping their identity from that point forth. Flynn’s own identity had transformed into a meek parody of what he used to be, or what he could gather from his own observations. There was a time Flynn would not have been shy to kiss Nathan the way he craved. Now he was finding himself afraid of it. Why am I afraid of Nathan? He’d never hurt anybody without a good reason. I don’t think he’d hurt me. Even if he wanted to.  
Nathan did not relent. He bobbed his head once, another nonverbal cue, a silent question.  
‘What’s wrong?’ Nothing’s wrong, Nate. I’m a fuckin’ disaster with a huge capital ‘d’. I’m just wondering what the hell you see in me for me to be your muse. Flynn felt a shaky grin play across his lips, nudging a foot against Nathan’s thigh. “M’fine. Stop asking. Where the hell we going?”  
A soft smirk curled at Nathan’s own lips, unable to help himself with mimicking Flynn’s expression. “What’s the matter? Got a place you need to be right now?” the younger man teased again, giving Flynn a soft bump with his elbow.  
I could think of half a dozen places, mate. None of which are in the fuckin’ sky. Flynn hated flying. He knew Drake was used to it, he travelled everywhere with Sully by plane since he was a teen. Harry huffed, rolling his eyes as he glanced out the window despite the flutter of anxiety. “Maybe a few. Seriously, mate. Where?”  
“I’m not sure,” Drake continued, almost cheerfully ready to start a conversation at the drop of a pin. “We got some work to do, Sully has got some contacts in London that are eager to get in contact with us—“  
Flynn tensed harshly at the sound of his birth-city, almost considering for a wild minute to storm to the cockpit and order Sullivan to turn the fuck around, but Nathan caught the look and laid his hand on Flynn’s knee. “Hey, relax. Not actually going. Let’s just say they’re not friends? We got something they want, but we got other plans right now. I think he mentioned the west coast, we might be hanging around much further north. Really, it’s just to lay low for now. Hate to say it, buddy, but even small towns might be preferred at this point.”  
Fuck, better than London. Hell, it’ll be too soon going back there. I’m not ready. It’ll be nice to see Cutter again but that city has too many bad memories. “Nathan, I honestly would not give a shit if it was Canada we decided to crash. Let’s just stay away from cartels and war criminals, yeah?” Or anyone else remotely dangerous right now. I could deal with a break from danger for a while. Flynn never thought he’d actually think those words, the more adventure and bullets flying overhead were often the better in his opinion. But times have changed, the shot to the chest brought his mortality into perspective. Harry just felt he wanted a long, well-deserved vacation from adrenaline rushes and explosions. He doubted the insatiable Nathan Drake felt the same, which did worry him. Flynn would not be able to keep up. And it will be over my fuckin dead body the day they start treating me as a senior citizen. I’m not yet fuckin’ 40. But Christ, do I feel old.  
“You got it, buddy,” Nathan laughed, giving Harry’s knee a pat before resuming the reading of the historical text he had in hand. Nate had a stash of books around Sullivan’s plane, Flynn would have no doubt the young man would have acquired a library if he had a permanent address. Flynn instead enjoyed the view, Nathan’s gently furrowed brow of concentration as he found an interesting passage, the occasional jab of a finger at a particular sentence. Yeah. I know I’m crushing on this kid, it’s been a couple years since I first noticed it. But Nate is the only constant I got. He’s a rock. He’s a stable foundation when mine was built on sand. Flynn had to stuff down the swell of emotions, a soft smile on his scarred lips as he watched Nathan read.  
~~~````~~~  
It was decided to go somewhere well beyond the reach of the cartel, so they actually stopped in Hawaii for a few days to enjoy another couple days of sun and sand without being bothered. Nathan was very much a sun-worshipper and insisted he was going to go diving to check out the tropical sea life. Harry smiled at his boyish enthusiasm, Nathan going out of his way to purchase a water-proof camera for his adventure. There was a time Flynn would have been at his side, equally amped and rearing to go. But the beautifully hot weather did not fare well with Harry’s recent preference for covering clothing, long sleeves and jeans. Not to mention he felt awfully exposed to the countless crowds of tourists crawling the beaches and no doubt diving alongside Drake, strangers with curious stares that rendered him painfully aware of their glances. So they rented a small motel room alongside one of the lesser-known beaches, one that actually boasted two double beds. It was still one bed less than they needed, but Flynn supposed he would share with Nathan any day over Sullivan.  
While Sullivan normally would have occupied himself with his own activities, the need to supervise Flynn vetoed any plans. Flynn own desire for seclusion also rendered him incapable of being persuaded out into the sun. So to both men’s distaste, they had to spend time in the motel room in each other’s mutual company. Sprawled out on the left bed closest to the bathroom near the rear of the room, Flynn was watching a program about aquatic life in the local area but not actually interested. He was just pretending he was anywhere else but there, stuck in a room with Sullivan without Drake as a buffer. It was going to be tough. Flicking his bare foot idly, Harry lazily yawned as he stretched. He was not eager to fill the silence.  
Drake had not been gone for more than ten minutes before Sullivan settled on the opposite bed, sitting at the side and facing Harry directly. “Alright, we need to talk,” Victor murmured around the fresh cigar he pressed between his lips, no doubt needing to occupy himself with routine.  
No we don’t. I have nothing to say to you. Get out of my bloody face. Flynn could tell by Sullivan’s tone that this topic was a serious matter, one he very rarely heard unless dealing with dark territory. He kept his gaze trained on the television screen, not really absorbing it at all. But he would be damned if he was going to look Sully in the eye for this. “Victor, pipe down, yeah? I’m not in the talking mood.” Harry’s voice was oddly flat, weary on the fact everyone was stepping on eggshells around him.  
A metallic flick of a zippo lighter and within seconds, the pervasive scent of burning tobacco made Flynn scowl. “Only strangers and my mom calls me Victor,” the older man continued, glancing about for an ashtray but settling for a clean coffee mug set aside for visitors instead. “Friends call me Sully. You can, too.”  
“We’re not friends,” Flynn snapped immediately, his temper fairly raw and ready to flare up at a given notice. “We never were, but you fucked up that chance when you forced that medication on me. Next thing I know, I was in a bloody coma and was next to useless for a day.”  
“It saved your life,” Sullivan reasoned, his voice softer than usual. Flynn hated the tone, aware Nate and Sully knew his dirty little secret and were treating him differently. Like a victim. Like a broken thing needing to be mended. “But I have a feeling you didn’t want that. Nate told me you left a note before you took off. A serious one.”  
Normally, Flynn would have been coy enough with a joke to dance around the subject, a deft dodge of painful emotions. But his temper was already stoked, fuming about the decision to leave a note at all. “Yeah. Had every intention of carrying it out. Made my peace and ready to go. Your boy saw an end to that.” It was hard to keep the bitterness from bleeding into his voice.  
Sullivan was slowly shaking his head, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees with a sigh. “Flynn, did you even have a plan?”  
Plan? What’s there to plan? “Victor, I thought the point of suicide is that there is no planning. That’s it. It will be over, I’ll be done.”  
“Don’t be a smartass,” the older man growled, two fingers pinching the cigar while his free hand swept over his face. “Nate briefly mentioned a gun. So, you shoot yourself, you’re dead. What then? That poor kid was going to find you sooner or later, we’re just lucky it was sooner. He finds you like that, he would be goddamn devastated. You have no idea how hard that kid fought for your life, how many sleepless nights he’s spent by your side. We had to physically pry him away at times. If you do that to him, you will end up breaking him. I might have been born, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I know the way he looks at you. You’d be a moron if you didn’t see it too. You say you have no family, no kin. You have some now with Nate and myself. Given, you can be a dick, but I’m hoping you’ll warm up to me or it will be an awkward road from here.”  
Flynn could not help but laugh, an incredulous, disbelieving chuckle. He given up the charade of watching the program on the television, flicking it off but finding himself unable to still look at the man. “So that’s it, then? I got us involved with a madman that nearly murdered all of us, I sent Nathan to prison for three months, I shot and I nearly killed him, I nearly had all of you executed more than once, and you just… let me join the merry pack?”  
“You never had a choice,” Sully insisted again, his voice back to that soft tone that was driving Flynn up the fuckin’ wall. “You were essentially a captive. A prisoner of war. You were acting out of survival and anyone would have probably done the same. I’ve been in the navy, I know war crimes and what some men do to others, but you never had a choice.”  
Flynn, still holding the remote, whipped it across the room as hard as his right arm could muster in its atrophied state. The plastic case virtually exploded on contact with the solid tile wall, sending batteries, the green chipboard components and shards of the case across one side of the room and scattering it under the bed. Sullivan never flinched, much to Flynn’s rage, lunging up out of the bed to stand in front of him, fists clenched and glaring down at the seated figure with perhaps intent to strike. “Stop saying that like you fuckin’ KNOW! NO ONE FUCKIN’ KNOWS WHAT THAT’S LIKE!” Harry’s voice raised to a volume his strained voice was not prepared for, a bellow that hurt his throat. Angry tears were clouding his vision, obscuring Sullivan’s face, but he did not even appear slightly perturbed. More or less like it was an expected reaction. It was more than he could handle, wishing nothing more for seclusion. Flynn turned on his heel and literally leapt over the bed, vaulting over it and sliding into the bathroom before the door slammed behind him. He locked it hastily but found the mechanism hopelessly broken and beyond repair, scrubbing at his damp eyes and not daring to glance up to the mirror.  
Flynn sat down on the wall of the tub, fighting the sobs building in his throat. He was trying not to picture how pathetic he looked, forlornly pawing at his streaming eyes like a bawling child, having retreated from a conversation due to his anger. To hell with this. I’m not coming out. I’m going to get in the bath, soak and wait for Nathan. Think I’d rather get hit by a bus than deal with that again. Stubbornly, Flynn ignored how childish that sounded even to his own mind, already pouring the water. At least this time I won’t get disturbed. As far as I know, they don’t owe anyone in Hawaii. Harry sighed, already feeling his tears dry out, still swiping at his eyes for any traces of moisture. He tried not to think about how often he was bathing, up to three times a day if he could sneak a shower. If Drake noticed, he never commented and Flynn hoped Sullivan would not throw in his two cents on the topic. The pouring of the water into the tub, hot and steaming enough to burn at first getting in, blocked out any words Sullivan might have had for him through the door.  
~~~````~~~  
A glance at his watch told Harry Flynn that his time in the tub had limited to three hours, as Nathan had returned and was cheery enough to be heard through the bathroom door. Flynn perhaps had been dozing, knees drawn to his chest and chin resting on them, jerking awake and aware his water grown chilly in the tub. It seemed Sullivan purposely lured Nathan outside to talk because Flynn heard the voices cease and a door click shut. Already, he could feel his cooled temper beginning to simmer. Great. Need to let him know about my outburst then. He’ll be in here soon enough.  
Exactly as predicted, within less than five minutes at the most, Nathan’s light-fingered knock was at the bathroom door, Flynn growling under his breath. “Hey, buddy, mind if I come in?”  
Yes I do mind, you arse. Let me soak in peace. Stop babysitting me. Flynn could feel a heavy scowl creasing his features, sighing heavily as he allowed his face to relax and form a neutral mask. “It’s unlocked.” Harry cringed faintly at the sound of his voice, a rusty and rough tone hoarse from yelling.  
The door cracked open, Nathan poking his head into the room hesitantly until he noticed Flynn seated in the tub. The younger man’s face was still lightly flecked with beach sand, the indentation of diving-goggles imprinted on his forehead. That did not alter the concern in his eyes, slipping into the bathroom and closing the door behind him. “Hey. You’re back in the bath,” Nathan murmured, his voice soft and surprisingly calm. “You were in one before we left Cancun.”  
Flynn tried to ignore the implications of what his urge to bathe often and plenty meant, but having just went entire stints without the chance for the hunt for Shambhala, he preferred more baths. “You dragged me out of it because of the cartel, mate,” Flynn grumbled, unmoving from his curled position. His skin still ached from the hours of scrubbing, rosy and raw in some spots. Even though his hands and feet were pruned and numb, he had no intentions on budging yet. “How was the swim?”  
He could tell Drake was still excited about his adventure, previously just brimming with manic energy, but the talk with Sullivan must have ruined his mood. The younger man only shrugged with forced passivity. “It was alright, I guess,” Nathan stated plainly. “Got pictures when you are up for it. I think you would have enjoyed it more. Maybe next time you can come. Get you out of the room.”  
“I’d rather not, Nate,” Flynn quickly interjected, already agitated at the idea of taking off his shirt in front of an entire diving class of strangers. “Too busy out there. I’m fine without a babysitter, too. Victor can take off and prowl a beach or bar, I don’t need him breathing down the back of my neck.”  
“Yeah, he mentioned that,” Nathan sighed gently, rubbing at his forehead. “We need to pay for that remote, by the way…”  
“Then fuckin’ charge it to my bill,” Flynn snapped. “God knows I’ll have enough of one by the time I get out of this ‘partnership’.” He was not sure why he said that. Perhaps he was used to people abandoning him. He kept seeing the image of a huge expense bill with his name on it, a charge for the various services they provided him before they inevitably bailed.  
The hurt was tangible in Nathan’s eyes, sitting down on the wall on the tub as he had before in Cancun. “You really think we would do that to you?” Drake asked quietly, his brow furrowed. “Flynn, come on. I said I wasn’t going to just leave you. What makes you think I’d lie like that?”  
“We’re all liars, mate. We’re thieves. It’s in our job description.”  
Drake teased his bottom lip with his teeth, exhaling with another sigh. “Buddy, we wouldn’t do that to you. Not after all this. It’s just a remote, no big deal. Hey. You been through hell, we know that. You don’t have to explain.”  
Frustration was bubbling up despite his futile attempts to batter it down. Flynn unplugged the tub and let the water drain, but did not move. He just could not stand sitting in cold dirty water anymore. “Stop saying that like you two both fuckin’ know,” he growled, the only tone he can manage without the hitching in his breath bleeding through. “Neither of you fuckin’ know. You saw the evidence, alright, big fuckin’ deal. You saw the aftermath and the wreck I am now. That doesn’t mean a damn thing, mate. You two both pretend like you know what happened, but you don’t have a fuckin’ clue what any of it was like. The one I promised myself to, the woman I was going to spend my life with, left me to deal with it all on my fuckin’ own. She left me alone with that bastard… All on my own. I couldn’t tell anyone, he would have killed me, Nate. The whole fuckin’ camp knew and yet he said if I uttered a single word about it, he would have slit my throat in front of Chloe. The whole damn camp. They could hear me screaming. One even fuckin’ saw it, he just walked in as it was happening. How could she not have known? How is any of that even fair?”  
Nathan had slowly gotten up off the tub wall long enough to grab a clean towel, sitting back down at Flynn’s back directly behind him in the drained bath. Tenderly and stern persistence, Drake wrapped the older man in the fluffed towel, large enough to drape partially over his head like a hood. “It’s not fair, Flynn. None of it was.” Encircling his arms around the shape in the towel, Flynn felt Nathan’s face press into his shoulder through the cloth. “You’re right, buddy. We don’t know what happened, we don’t know what that’s really like. Chloe isn’t… good with this sort of thing. It was very hard on her to see you nearly die. I’m not saying what she did was right or okay, I get why you’re pissed off at her. But you’re not at fault here. Okay? If the whole camp knew and no one said a thing to her, then he must have threatened them too. There was no way she could have known, everyone was terrified of that asshole. But you’re not at fault. You’re not ruined, Harry. You’re not dirty, he’s dead and .gone, there’s no traces of him left on you but the scars. You don’t have to keep scrubbing yourself like this… Or stealing away for another shower or bath. You’re clean, buddy. A lot cleaner than most people.”  
Flynn wanted to retreat under the towel, hot tears already running down his cheeks again as he huddled his face into the folds. Fuck, Nathan, why are you always doing this to me? You’re not my shrink. I don’t even want a shrink. “How did you know?”  
The younger man pressed into his back began to rock him gently, a slow and soothing rhythm. “Okay, so I might have needed to ask. Sully explained it when I mentioned the fact you’re always holed up in here. I.. never had to deal with that so the thought never crossed my mind. I’m sorry, buddy. I really am. But there is nothing wrong with you. All this is perfectly normal for someone that been through what you did. You’re safe with us, okay? I got you. Sully’s got your back too. You just have to let us in, alright? You’re not going to get hurt, Flynn. We’re not going to hurt you, we’re not going to let anyone else hurt you. You’re always tense, pal. I just want you to be yourself again… I know that sounds dumb. Probably immature. But I just wish you can smile again and really mean it. I just want you to be happy, buddy. It’s killing me seeing you like this.”  
Soft sobs were hitching his breath freely now, Flynn could not stop them even as he physically tried to swallow them down. Being separated from Drake, however short of span of time, weighed heavily on him. How am I ever going to function without him? How pathetic is that? How do I get through life looking over my shoulder like this, afraid of getting jumped? Flynn did not have any answers, but he supposed they were not important at the moment. He might learn the answers eventually, but Flynn decided he would stick around to find out. He owed Nathan that much. Sullivan, I’d never have expected you of all people to talk me down from a ledge.  
~~~````~~~  
The trio boarded Sullivan’s plane the next day and left Hawaii, an unspoken drive to flee hot climates and less crowded populations. Flynn never asked why, he supposed he did not really care. The cost in fuel must be brutal, but it must have been a burden because Nathan mentioned it would be a while before they took off anywhere else, unless they were on the run again. He was told it was an unlikely scenario, but to still be kept in mind with their history. Flynn was back to clamming himself up, he could not bear to find words most the time. And Drake had honed in on it like a bloodhound.  
Sitting back on the damned couch in the plane, Flynn was curled up with legs folded, a blanket draped over his bony shoulders. There was a bit of turbulence at the beginning, the seatbelt still tight around his hips, but Nathan had already taken his off and stretched lazily before glancing to his friend at his side. “Hey, you can take that off now,” the younger man joked, a dare of a grin on his lips. “Never would have pegged you for a scared flyer.”  
“Oh, eat a bag of dicks, mate,” Flynn snapped back, but not without a bit of a smirk himself. “Alright, so a bit of one, yeah. Not afraid of heights if I can climb down. Little out of my control in a tin tube hurtling through the air above clouds, yeah?”  
“Alright, you got me there,” Nathan laughed, giving his companion a light pat on the shoulder. “We got enough parachutes, if that’s what you’re worried about. But I doubt that’s going to happen twice in five years.”  
Flynn’s playful grin ceased abruptly, eyes narrowing as his lip raised in a partial snarl. Leave it to Drake to talk about plane crashes when I confide in him about my fuckin fear of flying. “What?”  
Drake’s expressive green-blue eyes widened in response, about to backtrack his statement. “Wait, it’s not like it sounds, okay? That was on the hunt to El Dorado. Sully’s plane, the old one, wasn’t in the best of shape. Plus all the gunmen waiting for us…”  
Another bump of turbulence rocked the cabin, Flynn’s heart leaping up in his throat, both arms flying out to grip the armrest and Drake’s knee in a death-clutch, knuckles whitening. It was a small one, but the topic on hand already had him dreading the worst. He forced his eyes closed, struggling to keep his breathing slow and even, not to a rapid, panicked hyperventilation. Jesus. Keep it together, asshole. Don’t freak out. You’re looking a lot like Cutter that one time he got wasted and got stuck in a bin on a dare. It was funny watching, yeah, but Charlie was shitting himself. Bet I look pretty close too. Flynn swallowed, forcing his eyes back open, to the greyish murky haze outside the window. What, are we flying into a fuckin storm? Lovely.  
“Hey buddy,” Nathan’s voice called through the momentary delirium, the tone still playful and Harry forced himself to look at his friend. The younger man was almost reclining, relaxing and very much at home. Those big puppy eyes still held concern, though. “You okay? Don’t worry, we got our most capable pilot—“  
“So who was flying when it crashed?” Flynn interrupted, hardly comforted and not even slightly amused.  
Nathan averted his gaze guiltily, sheepish and ashamed. “That was me. I mean, it was a technical failure, but I hardly know emergency drills and what to do when something like that happens. Sully was… not with us, just Elena and me. He took a bullet to the chest, but it was stopped by Sir Francis Drake’s journal. I thought he died, had no time to look. Long story.”  
Long stories are better than memories, Natey-boy. Or awkward conversations about what you got in your journal. “Dunno if you noticed, mate, but we got time. Tell me.” If it means you’ll stop asking me questions and let me be quiet to myself for a while.  
Drake grinned with that boyish enthusiasm Flynn found endearing, already setting up for a long-winded saga of the fabled El Dorado, telling it with the same gusto as he would fictional ghost stories around a campfire. Flynn allowed a weak smile to play across his features, but just a small one. Even if he ended up tuning Nathan out, it was a welcomed distraction from the flight.  
~~~````~~~

They had settled in a cooler, mountainous area up further north, on the border of Alaska and Canada. Due to the firearms on board, they were unable to actually enter Canada but Flynn did not mind that fact. The grassy plains and snow-capped mountains of Alaska were cool, brisk, yet beautiful. They stayed a week at most, Sullivan already complaining about the chilly nights before they headed south again. In that time, Flynn kept to himself and did not further clash with Sullivan out of respect for Nate, although that did not hide the fact he was capable of holding an intense grudge as they never spoke to each other directly since. But Flynn also noticed subtle changes with his own body.  
His own stubborn insistence on exercise and improving his stamina was already faring well on his build, the beginnings of toned muscles filling out his bony, sickly physique most effected by his near-mortal injury and comatose condition. He still became short of breath without apparent trigger, his lung was still repairing itself and still under significant stress. His broken ribs were still healing, agonizing at times that he was still unable to lay on his stomach in bed. He was sleeping much better, it was Drake’s own personal decision to sleep close to Flynn to comfort him in his previously daily nightmares. They tapered off to maybe one a week, the last being five days before and finding himself looking better rested than he had before the experience of Borneo. He was slipping out for nightly walks and returning promptly before either of his companions noticed or woke. It done to cool his head when he found himself oddly frustrated or quick to anger, but he found it had added benefits to soothe his restlessness. Nearly all his wounds were closed up, the only exception of aging scabs was the former crater in his chest. It was less of a hole and more of a slight scabby, sensitive indent. Bandages were no longer necessary, much to his relief. It was like the closing of a gruesome chapter. He had taken to smiling more, usually only when Drake glanced in his direction. It was forced, but if it put the younger man at ease, it served its purpose. He taken to grooming himself to make it appear he had some semblance of normality now, even though he still felt very much out of place and lost as a tag-along. A shave was the only reason why he could stand to look at a mirror, otherwise he had become disgusted at the sight of what he had become. Looking better, sure. But still irrevocably marred.  
He even taken to accompanying Nathan and Sullivan out during the day, usually nothing too strenuous as young Drake was still fiercely overprotective of Harry’s slow progress. That day was the end of the week in Alaska, one last night before they set off again for slightly warmer climates. They were strolling the sidewalks of one of the more picturesque villages in the north, some buildings dating back as far as the original Gold Rush. Nathan was chatting with Victor, thick as thieves and regaling stories, while Harry himself lagged a few paces behind as he often did. He never minded that, he liked to take things at his own stride. It was late evening, they had just finished dinner, a local fish and chips place that Flynn found himself rather enjoying. It reminded him of home, but not in the uncomfortable sense that haunted him. It was a rare moment he was glad he never pulled that trigger. He was content. Shambhala, Borneo, all of it felt like a lifetime away for once instead of the day before. Stuffing his scarred hands into the pockets of his newest leather jacket, Flynn felt he could wander among crowds like the scant number of tourists milling the town and the locals going about their business, not so exposed and naked under their stare. He felt like one of them, just for once. Watching the gulls circle the idly in the sky overhead was a soft blessing in and of itself.  
Harry Flynn had actually been entertaining his possible future life alongside Nathan Drake and Victor Sullivan, a faint musing smirk at his lips, when it happened. There was a thunder-crack bang that echoed through the town-square, utterly unpredicted and startling everyone in the general vicinity, eyes whipping to the source. It had been a tourist in gaudy bright winter wear despite the mild weather, sporting a prop antique rifle that fired blanks, a paying experience in front of a vendor as well as photos of the individual for an extra ten dollars. Everyone else had simply continued their business. But Harry Flynn was suddenly miles away, having crashed to his knees on the cobblestone and both hands clasping over his ears like a vice. It was his first flashback in about a week, the first one to experience while waking this vivid.  
The Cintamani Stone bore witness to vast amounts of blood and violence that day, perhaps more than it had in entire centuries since being lost to the ages. Harry Flynn woke up abruptly on the floor, or had become conscious again, he had no idea how he gotten there for a couple dazed seconds. The taste of thick copper was flooding his mouth, his jaw a wicked throbbing blur of pain. There was something hard and small in his mouth, he spit it out and heard it click onto the stone floor. A tooth. He was trying to sit up, struggling to get his body to obey basic commands but he felt so much agony, his chest on fire. He did not need to know how many ribs were broken. Delirious, he just lay back down on the floor, panting hard through the haze of pain.  
“You’re still alive,” came a guttural growl, Zoran’s accented words forcing him to roll his head and stare up at the gargantuan behemoth looming over him. His shadow fell over Flynn, eclipsing the torch light. On his back on the floor, the man seemed more like a monument than a human being. But his eyes were alive with cruelty, almost twinkling with malice, dark shadows on his features making them almost glow. “If there is one thing you can do, Mr. Flynn, it is take a beating.”  
Flynn wanted to beg, to plead for his life. His right arm he could barely move, a fight to have it rise and block his face in defense of another strike. As weak as he was, he doubted it would have much impact on protection anyway. His head was aching, face a blur of pain. He could feel hot blood on his cold skin. He tried to choke out a word, anything at all, but blood and saliva pooled in his throat and he only could gurgle.  
“You have been a thorn in my side since the start. Perhaps I chose the wrong thief or perhaps neither of you are to be trusted. I wonder how the great Nathan Drake will react to seeing his former friend’s corpse before the very thing he sought.”  
Flynn shook his head, still trying to force a word, emerging only as a cough to clear his throat. He tried to scream that he was not friends with Drake, that his death would mean nothing but maybe a victory. But the Serbian warlord did not care, not when his goal was so close. Staring down the pistol was the most terrifying thing, seeing the safety click off with pure intent, more intent than when he had it shoved down his throat. No, Zoran was only toying with him then. Now, he was finishing it.  
The pressure on the trigger above him determined his decision to partially roll, intending to actually clear the bullet and it to slam into the stone at his back hopefully, luckily maybe, harmlessly. It was an intended killing blow, a precise aim for his heart. He was already tucking his hip and rolling when the gunshot slammed into his chest and winded him.  
For a split second, Harry Flynn could hardly believe it happened at all, it felt like he simply been punched in the sternum. The pain did not lessen, it intensified, a bloom of scalding heat at his breast and spreading. He could not breathe. The oxygen had been blown out of his diaphragm, hitching and straining at the effort to rake in one gasp. Holy shit, Flynn could only think in a mindless drone, his hand flopping bonelessly over the hole in his jacket. That son of a bitch just shot me. He actually fuckin’ did it.  
Flynn thought Zoran’s ugly sneering face would be the last he could see, he hoped that his vision would grey out almost immediately and he would be dead. But the pain never wanted to stop, it never wanted to even lessen out of mercy. Lungs whistling for air with one coughing heave, Flynn’s legs began to respond again, only able to writhe aimless on the stone. A weak whimper left him, watching as Lazarevic paced around him, dreading and praying in strange dualism for a second bullet.  
“Still alive?” Zoran almost chuckled. Almost. Flynn had never seen him do that, not even smile once other than gazing upon the Stone. “This seems to be your only talent, to live to spite me. And your friends will be here soon enough.”  
Kill me, Flynn wanted to beg, he had been through too much suffering, too much anguish and agony. He did not want Zoran to get bored. He got sadistic when bored, even more so than he typically was. But he could only cough, splutter, stare and plead with his eyes. To his shock and horror, Zoran plucked a grenade from his belt, one of four hanging like deadly ripe fruit. The pin looped around his index finger, a quick jerk tugging it free and triggering the explosive. All he would have to do was drop it and let the device detonate. He, instead, crouched beside Flynn on the ground, boots not yet touching the expanding puddle of blood underneath him. Harry flinched, his wrist snared and yanked out before the grenade was stuffed into his palm. “Make yourself useful,” Zoran snarled, already standing and honed in on his goal. The thief was no longer amusing to him, having reached the limit in use. “Kill them when they come.”  
Harry Flynn felt disembodied hands on his shoulders, on his back, two distinct sets that gently shook his entire body as if to lure him into consciousness. When his clutching hands fell away from his ears to defend himself, he become aware of voices, two at first, familiar yet distant. It sounded as if he were miles away instead of kneeling before them. Flynn forced his eyes to open, at first too afraid to dare in the terror that could await him.  
Aquamarine eyes consumed his vision, large with sympathetic concern and pure empathy. His face was in calloused hands that were not his own, supporting his chin and forcing eye-contact. Nathan was crouched in front of him, both hands cradling the older man’s jaw and his forehead touching Flynn’s. Harry realized he was gripping fistfuls of Nathan’s shirt, having already torn it from a struggle he was not aware of. He had to focus on Drake’s whispered, hushed words to absorb them, to decipher them in his confused mind.  
“Come on, Flynn, where are you? I’m right here. You’re okay. Buddy, come on, show me a sign you’re in there. Show me you’re okay.”  
“N-Nate?” Flynn could only choke out, still feeling as if his lungs were being crushed in a vice. His breath raked in and out harshly, almost hyperventilating. He felt deeply confused, horribly lost, having just been back at Shambhala only a moment before.  
“There he is,” Sullivan murmured, gently squeezing Flynn’s shoulder, the other at Nathan’s and reciprocating the gesture there too. “You’re alright, kid. You’re coming out of it. You were just having a flashback, it’s common. He’s okay, Nate. It’s not a real gun, Flynn. You’re okay.”  
I knew it wasn’t a fuckin’ gun. I knew that, I’m not stupid. Flynn felt shameful hot tears in his eyes, already mortified and deeply humiliated. He could feel his face burning, a self-loathing flush colouring his complexion. He forced himself to release Nathan’s shirt, his anxiety making him glance up and down the street to confirm what he was most ashamed of. Everyone that noticed his breakdown in the immediate area had stopped their business to stare unabashedly and one person actually filming the incident on their cell phone. Oh my God. This is worse. This is so much worse than the whole camp knowing about the abuse. None of them had phones to film shit. None of them stared like this, the men wouldn’t even look at me.  
Victor had must have been attuned to his feelings because he glanced up and down the town-square, his voice raising for his disgruntled words to be heard by all eavesdroppers nearby. “Any of you people have any fucking manners?” Sullivan barked, his neck the colour of his flamboyantly red shirt. He jabbed a finger at the cellphone bearer, taking a few bold steps in his direction. “You. Yeah, you. Put it away or it’s going up your ass. Final warning.”  
The defensive outburst was enough to snap back social conventions, most politely averting their eyes and continuing their business, the nosey few still tossing curious glances. The one with the phone got the message, quickly sauntering off but not without a taunting laugh. All the while, Nathan never budged, his grip having fell to Flynn’s shuddering shoulders. He kept whispering soothing, calming words, not faltering until he gotten an actual response from Harry. “You’re okay now, pal. You’re gonna be okay. Do you need help getting up?”  
“Nate, just help me…” Flynn hissed, too humiliated to even speak aloud. His own arms wrapped around himself, a self-soothing cradle he often resorted to. He wanted to try and get up, to get everyone’s eyes off him, but his knees were aching and legs were wobbling and threatening to give. “Just get me out of here…”  
“You got it, buddy,” Drake soothed again, his grip training under Harry’s arms and slowly guiding him to his shaky feet. Flynn swayed but both men were determined not to let him collapse again, Sully’s firm hand out and grasping his elbow to steady him. “You’ll be okay, come on, let’s go back to the room. You’re a little banged up.”  
Banged up? Flynn did not remember anything past the gunshot. His knees were sore and raw, burning under his jeans. Beyond that, he felt completely fine. Physically at least. Mentally is a whole ‘nother play-field. He allowed his feet to move, trudging along to where he was being led. It was another rare moment he was grateful for Sullivan’s assistance. Dammit. At this rate, I’ll end up liking this sad old man.  
~~~````~~~

Harry Flynn was deeply, eternally grateful for the pair, even though he scorned their presence a week or so before. He allowed himself to be guided back to the hotel, a small apartment building converted to a cheaper place to rent per night. It was a step up from Cancun. There was two twin beds in the bedroom section, a separate living room walk-in with a couch, and a bathroom that boasted both a tub and shower in separate corners. There was more than enough sleeping space to accommodate everybody, but he found himself seated on Nathan’s claimed bed regardless of their plans.  
Victor had disappeared briefly, mentioning he would be back in minutes, allowing the younger man to fix Flynn up, much more easily trusted. The denim of Harry’s jeans were patched with blood at the knees, indicating he scraped them in his fall. It was when Flynn cast a glance to the mirror did he see the damage he could not seem to feel.  
Auburn tangles of hair hung in wild clumps, not the combed order he groomed himself before they left. His face was a shell-shocked mask, green eyes ringed red from the testament to tears and crying he did not necessarily remember doing. Angry pink scratches and red linear welts striped his face, traces of blood standing out on some marks. What the fuck? What happened to me? Perplexed, he inspected his hands, finding fingertips and nails stained in telltale red smudges. A few strands of his coppery hair clung to one fist. Jesus. I did it to myself. I was pulling out my hair and scratching at my face and I don’t fuckin’ remember any of it.  
Nathan had been in the bathroom to gather up some supplies he previously stored, a small first-aid kit under one arm, a face-cloth in his grasp. He was about to set up his mother-hen routine when he caught Flynn’s mortified gaze at the sight in the mirror. His boyish face pinched with sympathy, wincing gently. He busied himself setting out the supplies in an orderly row on the bed as he spoke. “I’m so sorry, pal. I had no idea what was going on. One moment we were talking and you weren’t behind us. You were maybe thirty feet behind us, on the ground on the sidewalk. People were crowding you, we thought you fainted. Sully had to shove everyone back that was getting too close, you know? It wouldn’t have been bad if people were trying to help… But they were just staring. Gawking.”  
That’s because they’d never seen a mental breakdown in person before. At least not a complete stranger’s. Flynn was afraid to know the answer, but the question came out before he was even fully prepared to hear it. “What was I doing?”  
That was a harder topic for the young American, back to chewing on his bottom lip as he sorted through gauze and readying disinfectant. He spoke more reluctantly, choosing his words carefully. “Nothing at first. You were just gone, your hands on your ears, kneeling there. I’m… not sure how it happened or why, maybe someone touched you. You started screaming. Before I could get your hands away, you were… just attacking yourself, buddy. Pulling your hair, clawing your face. You only stopped when I grabbed you and got close.”  
The creeping mortification just seemed to keep coming, wanting to rub his face but not quite daring to touch the new scratches without Nathan’s permission. Flynn was always governing himself in public with grace, even comfort previously with careless flirting and smug sly humor. The thought, the very image, of him losing his marbles in the middle of a crowded street and made a mockery of was more humiliating than most events he faced so far.  
The embarrassment was most likely obvious and readable on his features, as Nathan hesitantly smiled and patted his sore knee as he often done. “Hey,” he cooed softly, gently rolling up the cuff of Harry’s left jean leg until it bunched at his thigh and exposed the injury. The scrape was bloody but shallow, running down his shins. “Don’t worry about it. So you had a freak out, it’s a small town in the middle of nowhere. None of these people know you or even have a clue of what you been through. You don’t have to explain or apologize. We’ll take off tomorrow and we’ll never have to deal with that situation again, right? Maybe somewhere quieter, okay? No loud noises or crowds, just us for a while. Hell, maybe we can give camping a try?”  
Flynn could not suppress a half-snort of a laugh, shaking his head. “No fuckin’ camping. I have had enough of camping for a lifetime, mate. Three months of it in a jungle, in a tent, on the ground, no running water and no bathrooms. No. I like a bed. I like plumbing. And I like not finding snakes or spiders in my sheets.”  
That brought a more authentic grin to Nathan’s lips, spritzing alcohol onto the scrape. Flynn hardly reacted. Compared to the kind of pain he was enduring for months on end, it was nothing at all. “Alright, no camping. Maybe just a cozy little place instead.”  
Nothing else was said when the process was repeated with the other knee, equally scraped and bloody. How did I cut them that bad? Did I throw myself on the ground? Nathan worked meticulously but also with a careful tenderness, before moving up the small scratches on Flynn’s face. Harry could not suppress a faint flush.  
“What, you’re embarrassed?” Drake quipped with a sly grin, damp gauze sweeping over one of the shallow marks. Flynn winced, a sharp intake of breath whistling through grit teeth. Okay, that one stung a bit.  
“I’m just a man, mate,” Flynn jabbed back, a smirk curling one side of his mouth. “Lose your mind in front of strangers like that, see how you feel. Not exactly like a bad trip. More like a waking nightmare.”  
The humor faded from Drake’s youthful face, those puppy eyes back and staring right through him, past any façade he might have in place. He dabbed at another shallow graze along his forehead, eliciting another growl of discomfort. “Shit, man. I feel like an asshole. After the bang, we just kept walking, we thought you were behind us. Sully noticed first. If he didn’t, hell, we might have kept walking. I don’t know, that just freaks me out thinking about it. I’m sorry, man. Next time, I’m keeping an eye on you.”  
Flynn could not help but feel the pull of guilt, like an undertow current while treading water. He sagged in his spot on the bed, head dropping. None of it was hardly Nathan’s fault. If anything, he felt it was his own for being foolish. Of course, the scenario played through his rather imaginative mind, horrified by the implications. Harry could not fathom having a mental breakdown among strangers, let alone trying to get his bearings surrounded by unfamiliar faces. Had he reacted with hostility and aggression to instinctively protect himself, would someone else get hurt? They might end up arresting me. End up in another prison. This time, out of my fuckin’ mind. “I knew it wasn’t a real gun…” Flynn could only mumble, the shame never having left. “Stupid… It was stupid. I should have known better.”  
“Hey,” Nathan interjected, perhaps more sternly than intended. Flynn was surprised to feel Nathan’s rough yet warm fingers snare his jaw in his grasp, lifting his head and forcing eye-contact. He had been grabbed like that before, once by Zoran himself, but Drake was worlds different. He communicated a gentle kindness even through his digits. Flynn almost leaned into the touch, craving a kind of affection and love he had never managed to possess for long. “You are far from stupid. It caught you by surprise. You were shot, Flynn.”  
“So were you,” Harry almost whispered, voice wavering. Fuck, again?! Keep it together, Flynn. Your emotions have been running your life since you fuckin’ got back from Shambhala, get it together. No amount of internal verbal berating could keep his eyes from burning, glassy again as he squeezed his eyelids shut to stop those sympathetic clear eyes looking right through his own. Reading him like a book. “You were shot, too, Nate… And it wasn’t fuckin’ Lazarevic or an accident. It was me. I shot you. On purpose. I aimed low, I couldn’t bear to kill you, I had the fuckin’ shot, Nate. But I couldn’t do it. I hoped… somehow, you’d get away. And you did. I’m so fuckin’ happy you did, I… I don’t know what would have happened if you died. Maybe we’d all be dead… Zoran would have won.”  
“So why are you thinking about this now?” Nathan softly spoke, Flynn feeling his warm breath against his eyelashes. “It turned out for the better, buddy. I’m fine. I mean, yeah, it hurt like hell and I thought I was dead but none of that shit matters anymore, okay? You aimed low on purpose, Lazarevic aimed to kill. You went through much more than I did. It’s not your fault, pal. What happened out there was not your fault. It might have been a fake gun but it sounded real enough. Sometimes, our brains play tricks on us.”  
Flynn was not even sure why he was arguing. He grit his jaw tight, hard enough that he thought his teeth might shatter, trying to forbid the soft sobs already working their way up his throat. That did not stop the tears from beading in his eyelashes and running down his face. Nathan’s touch never faltered, one hand immediately going to sweep away the damp trails. “I thought I was getting better…” Harry hissed, frustrated, deeply so. Waiting on a mental recovery was the most frustrating aspect of his life up until that point, he could muscle, charm, flirt or weasel his way out and into everything but this. “I thought I was going to be okay. He’s dead and rotting and he’s still fuckin’ haunting me. It’s like I was back there, Nate. I was so scared. I saw it all over again, at the Cintamani Stone… I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. I could taste my own blood. And he’s just… standing over me. Watching. Waiting for me to die. He wanted me to. But he fuckin’ missed. And he wouldn’t put me out of my damn misery. Not unless it meant killing you too, so he just shoved a grenade in my hand.”  
“Jesus, Flynn…” Nathan almost gasped, the horror a tangible thing that almost made him shiver. Harry knew he was shaking, an uncontrollable tremble like a fever. “Hey. You were there months ago, months. That was just a flashback. You weren’t there, Flynn. You’re alive. You’re getting so much better. You could sleep a solid eight hours at night now, you’re not as jumpy as you were before… You are getting better, Harry.”  
An agitated whine almost rose up in Flynn’s throat, that stubborn desire to argue, bicker, to get his rage out in a verbal maelstrom overwhelming. But his whimper fell flat when he felt chapped petals press against his own lips, warm breath over his mouth. Flynn’s eyes snapped open, still glazed with tears, astonished to find exactly what he suspected. Nathan Drake made the move and boldly kissed him, lingering only a second or two before hesitantly breaking. It was surprisingly chaste, almost shy. The inexplicable surge of desire swelled, Flynn debated returning it perhaps with more hunger, even lust. The rattle of the keys outside the door killed the decision, alerting them of Victor Sullivan’s return. Nathan giving a bashful little smirk and wink before straightening and resuming his gentle sweeps of disinfectant as if nothing at all had occurred. Oh, I see. Our little secret. Guess Sully doesn’t know Nate goes both ways. Or Nate doesn’t know Sully already has a clue.  
The door cracked open at first, before it was bunted open by Victor with both hands notably full. With a sniff, Harry hastily dried his face with both hands, wincing at the small sting when fingertips found the fresh welts. Nathan was returning the unused supplies to the first aid kit, shoving it under the bed for now. Laziness sometimes prevailed over organization.  
“There, you’re looking more like yourself again,” Sully stated plainly, not without a smirk at his findings. “I think we have all had a hell of a night and could use a drink.”  
Oh, fuck yes. I haven’t had a drink since meeting Nate at the bar with Chloe. A lifetime ago. Flynn’s head perked up at the mention of alcohol, the first real pleased grin he had in a while manipulating his expression from morose weariness. Sullivan was clutching the neck of a large bottle, dark tropical-flavored rum he must have purchased from in-town. The other hand clutched a small steel bucket of presumably ice, rattling with each step. Nathan chuckled at his partner’s intentions, giving his head a shake as he sat at Harry’s side, mattress dipping from additional weight.  
“Rum, Sully? How hard do you plan on partying? You’re flying tomorrow.” Nathan almost scolded, waggling a stern finger. “What happened to staying off the hard liquors?”  
“When shit-shows like that happen,” Sullivan sighed, the weariness in his tone settling with the evening chill. Harry could see it, the aging a sharp contrast to Nathan’s youth. He wondered just how hard things were getting on the older American, none of them were getting any younger. “I’m sure Flynn will second that.”  
“For once, we agree on something,” Harry almost chirped, his attitude having made a drastic change. At first entering the room, he was humiliated, upset, beyond exasperated. Nathan himself certainly had a hand in that shift. Flynn already felt lighter, airy. The promise of liquor on top of that was a cherry on the cake. “Come on, Vic, get some glasses and pour’em out.” On purpose, he still refused to use the name ‘Sully’. As much as he felt he owed the man, he did not feel they had to go that far. Not yet, anyway.

“Watch it,” Sully warned, but clearly unable to hold much of a grudge. Flynn’s turn in mood was welcomed by both men, he noticed. The elder went to a cupboard at the ready kitchenette, gathering three glasses and laying them out orderly in a row on the counter. Each got a handful of ice and a hefty helping of rum before Sullivan returned to the beds side by side.  
Nathan accepted his glass gingerly, but Harry did not match his coyness. Flynn almost snatched it, very eager for his first taste in hard liquor in many long months. The beer in Cancun hardly left him buzzed even after finishing it. Sitting across from them, Sullivan raised his own glass in a toasting gesture and Harry and Nathan mirrored. That was a moment Flynn took his first sip, savoring the sweet burn and relishing every minute of it. Ah. There we go. That’s what this whole shitty situation has been missing. I could have seriously used this.  
With the rum flowing, the night went much more rancorously, the laughter high and the jokes flying. Even with his face still stinging from the panicked self-mutilation, Flynn was grinning and laughing like old times again. But eventually, one drink proved too much for Nathan, already dozing sitting up. Flynn offered his bed on the couch and that was more than enough for the youngest among them. He retired for the night with a yawn and nearly shambling into the corner of the wall instead of the doorway.  
That left Flynn alone with Sullivan. This normally would have made him take the cue to leave or feign weariness himself, but he felt actually alright for the first time in a while. Flynn was on his third refill, Sully on his second. Conversation had quieted down out of habit, although Nathan could sleep through nuclear fallout. There was a bit of a gap after the shenanigans of Montreal and Budapest, a lull of silence and Flynn regarded his glass of rum in silence, reclined back against the headrest. Sullivan’s face was a bit rosy, but otherwise he appeared not all that inebriated.  
“Flynn,” Sullivan started, and the British thief knew the tone changed. Things were about to get serious. “Are you okay? I know you’re fine now, you’ve smiled the most the past two hours than you have since you came out of your near-death experience. But, earlier tonight, that episode. How are you … handling it?”  
Oh boy. Here it comes. I knew it was going to happen. Glad they both didn’t double-team me. Oh, that sounded dirty. Flynn almost was going to grin, the lewd image coming off mostly funny. But he knew that was the liquor making him stupid. “Listen, Victor that shit is so far from where I want to be right now. I don’t want to think about it. It was a bad trip. That’s all.”  
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”  
Flynn shrugged. Normally, this topic made him angry, a raw sore spot that everyone in his general vicinity seemed intent on prodding. But the rum made him calm, liquor always settled him down and drained his temper instead of stoking it. It was a bizarre paradox considering how alcohol often made people act belligerent. Victor, you really don’t want to know. No amount of Navy training as prepped you for this, contrary to your belief. “Well, what do you want from me right now? A confession? Need the rest of the bottle for that, mate.”  
“Sometimes, that’s what it takes for some people,” Sullivan insisted, reaching over to top off Harry’s glass with the bottle. Flynn almost grinned, almost. He did not want to appear too happy about being plied with booze. “That’s how most guys done it when I was young, anyway. Not sure what you kids do these days.”  
“Kid?” Flynn snorted, but not without a bit of a smirk. He could hardly taste the burn anymore as he drank. “I’m thirty-fuckin’-nine years old.”  
“You’re a kid to me, bucko,” Sully jabbed back, returning the grin. “Stop dodging the question. Nate isn’t exactly secretive about your progress, you are doing better but that did not change the fact you never really come to terms with what happened.”  
Come to terms? The hell does that even fuckin’ mean? No, I understand and accept that Lazarevic mutilated me and kept me as a secret sex slave. No problems ‘coming to terms’ with that one. “Victor, stop playing shrink,” Flynn simply sighed, rubbing his sore, scratched face. “And shit got bad, yeah? I know that. Hell, I can’t look in the mirror without seeing what happened. But guess what? Lazarebitch is dead. Problem solved.”  
The eldest of their group simply shook his head, exhaling heavily through his nostrils before taking another sip. “Now I know even you don’t believe that.”  
No. No I don’t. The man is very much alive in my head. Flynn grit his teeth, suppressing a shiver that raced up his spine. Part of him hoped it was the ice in his drink paired with the chilly climate of Alaska. “I’m nowhere near drunk enough,” Flynn mumbled, immediately bringing his glass to his lips. He drank heavily, gulping down hard liquor until he drained the cup despite a protesting sound from Sullivan. “Relax,” Flynn sighed, almost breathless as his head spun. The buzz was pleasant and deeply missed. “Another one, cap’n.”  
“Uh, hell no?” Sully corrected, closing the bottle firmly. “You just downed that. Let it settle first. Pace yourself.”  
“What are you, my dad?” Flynn irritably snapped, his judgement not stable. He was drunk, not enough to slur words quite yet but well on the way. He wanted more, but he was not going to pitch a tantrum for it. “C’mon. Just a bit?”  
“Alright, tell you what,” Sullivan murmured, his tone sounding more of a proposition. “Half a glass more, if you explain what happened back there in the town-square. Nothing more, nothing less.” The bottle of rum waggled teasingly, almost tauntingly, sloshing that already more or less made Harry’s decision for him. He offered his glass out silently, but when Sullivan did not make the move to pour, it was decided that he had to indulge first. Flynn’s brow furrowed, a frown conveying his ill feelings on the matter but he supposed no harm would come of it.  
“Fuck it. Why not?” Flynn breathed at last, more thirsty and eager for another sip with each passing hesitant minute. Pretend it’s not Sullivan, alright? Pretend its Nate. “There was just a split second it did sound like a real gun, alright? And for a moment, I wasn’t there. I was… back in Shambhala. Right at the Cintamani Stone. I woke up on the floor, after Lazarevic ambushed me and disarmed me and no doubt beat the ever-loving shit out of me. I could taste blood, I was staring up at his madman that beat me, carved me up, raped me, tortured me, over the span of months and he was fuckin’ done. He was finished with me. All that pain and suffering and backbreaking effort for that sonnavabitch and he was ready to execute me for Nate and the others to find. I tried to move out of the way, but it was too little too late. He fuckin’ shot me. It was like I was living it all over again. I could feel it all, the fuckin’ pain of it, the terror, all the while he’s just pacing around me. He loved watching that. Watching me bleed and suffer and hope for death. Then he shoved the grenade in my hand, told me to kill Nate and the girls when they came. And then I came out of it. That’s all I remember, Vic. Now hit me. You promised.”  
Victor Sullivan was certainly better at masking his emotions than his protégé, but even Harry could spot the little flinches here and there like at mentioning his sexual abuse. Wordlessly at first, he twisted the cap free and refilled Harry’s glass, to the top unlike previously indicated at the halfway mark. That brought a grateful nod from Flynn, immediately bringing his drink to his lips to quench his thirst. Hey. Therapy isn’t too bad when you’re drunk. But something tells me it probably doesn’t work too well for my liver.  
“Fuck, kid,” Sully sighed at last. He rarely used the big ‘f’ bomb, curses like ‘goddamn’ and occasionally colourful words for private parts were more his flavour. Flynn noticed by habit, Sully used them much less when Nathan was present. He hates swearing in front of his boy even now, when he’s a damn adult. “I might not know a whole lot about recovery from trauma but I do hear that talking things out is best. When you’re ready, of course.”  
“Of course,” Flynn agreed, already draining half the glass of rum. He was well and drunk now, head spinning enough that he was certain walking would be a chore to do confidently. “That was hardly the traumatic flashback, by the way. That was just the one that came to the sound. Guessing they call that a ‘trigger’ in mental-speak, right?”  
“Hardly traumatic?” Sully asked, tone incredulous and disbelieving. “If you ask me, kid, that is the definition of the word ‘traumatic’.”  
Flynn giggled. Being months after his first hard drink, he could hardly conduct himself as he should. He was much more talkative, having been threatened with painful and agonizing death by his abuser if he so much as uttered a word about the nature of those private meetings. For weeks after Zoran’s death, that threat still felt like it had teeth. It was a secret he intended to carry to the grave, but secrets are so damn heavy. To carry all that weight on his own nearly caused him to take his life. He hid himself from the woman he claimed to love and lost her in the process of trying to protect her. What else did he have left to lose? Dignity? It was almost a laughable concept now. There was no such thing as dignity when being victimized that level. “Traumatic is what he would make me do before he found what he was looking for. Those are what my nightmares are reserved for.”  
“Don’t mind if I pry, but such as?”  
Oh, I mind, Sully-boy. You’re not going to bother buying me dinner first? Thought older guys like yourself had manners. Flynn had been absently staring down at the melting ice cubes, barely slivers floating in the booze. He swirled the glass gently, debating on discussing one of the more horrific parts of his past. “Zoran is just the latest but very ambitious abuser on my list of abusers…” Flynn murmured, not even sure he wanted to admit some of these dark secrets. Some of these, not even Nathan knew. “My mum was the first. She wanted to destroy me before I was even fuckin’ born. What chance is that?” Another long drink drained his glass, but he no longer had the desire to get smashed. Any more and he think he might end up chucking it all up over the bed. He still could not bring himself to look at his sit-in psychiatrist. “She was a drug-addled whore that used while pregnant and I was born so addicted, they had me detox as a fuckin’ newborn. As if that weren’t bad enough, she couldn’t stand me. I’m surprised I lived at all through that. What kind of fuckin’ mum hates their only kid? But no matter what I did, she would never show love to me. That leaves a mark, y’know? She used to beat the ever-lovin’ shit out of me. She brought clients home to fuck, sometimes right in front of me, all hours. Even in the middle of the night, I wasn’t safe in my own fuckin’ bed. Some of those sick fucks would sneak in my room. So yeah, I’ve been turned out young. I’ve been around the sexual deviant block before even fuckin’ puberty. I dunno if mum profited off it. I guess it would make it worse, knowing my mum pimped me out.  
“I ran away at seven, spent the night on the street. That night was fuckin’ bad, even by my messed up standards. I tried to take shelter in an alley, it was pouring rain, who would have guessed in bloody London. Some street punks had the same idea. Six of them, none of them adults themselves but maybe ten years older than myself. Some of them recognized me, the whoreson. I dunno what it is when young men get in packs… and they find someone weaker. Before I can dart out of there, they grabbed me and my clothes were ripped off me… They all took turns. Seven years old and I was gang-raped for the first and only time in my life, so far, fingers crossed. They tossed some pocket change on me and left, laughing. I wanted to die that night. I did wish they killed me at the time. I swallowed what little pride I had at the time and went home. And that’s when I found my mother murdered. Someone had beaten her to death on the floor of our kitchen. There was blood everywhere. All this time, I don’t remember my mum’s face or what she looked like. I remember she had light blonde hair, but then it was just… soaked with blood. There were footprints in it, a lot of them. I … I don’t know how I reacted all that much. I just remember the kitchen and the mess. But that night I became an orphan. And I decided then I had to get the fuck out of London. It took years, learning the ropes, pretty tough mostly on my own. I didn’t have anybody, I had to depend on myself mostly but I met some good friends along the way. I learned not everyone is cruel or has bad intentions. I had to become my own parent, up until I made it to Cancun.  
“I was fine there a while. Sun, sand, women, it was a real riot. I was caught stealing from this older bloke, Jerry that took me in for a while. He taught me a lot of shit I had no hope in hell learning on my own. He taught me to pick locks, to fire a gun and actually hit what I was aiming for. I spent … how long… five, six years with him? He was a good man. But there were things I wasn’t ready to talk about. He wanted to know more about me, perfectly understandable, yeah? But I panicked. I left Cancun one night without even so much as a note. He did not need to … be burdened with a broken, fucked-up kid like me. He deserved better than me. I wish I stayed, I do. But no point lingering on past mistakes you can’t fix.  
“And you know what? For a while, I was fine. I was perfectly fine on my own. I might have become a little over-confident with myself, bigger and bolder jobs. But I was doing just fine. Until I was 25, I accepted the drink from a total stranger. That was my big fuckin’ mistake. If Jerry had the sense to teach me about predators, he would have said never accept a drink from a stranger. It was on damn Bourbon Street in Orleans, I wasn’t thinking. I wondered why I felt so dizzy after one drink. Then I woke up in some hotel room, one man on top of me, the other holding my arms down, one guy pinning my legs. I don’t know why, I couldn’t even lift my head, I was so out of it. But I still knew what happened. I couldn’t move, but I remember it all. It was three men, that night. They… must have had an operation going, a new target every night, because I was robbed penniless in the process. They took everything, all I had left were my clothes… and my mum’s ring. I don’t know why they ever bothered. I mean… why me?  
“I think that’s the worst fuckin’ part about all of this bullshit in my sad excuse for a life. Why the hell is it me? I fought my ass off to get my life together. I never had a chance from the start, but I’d be damned if I didn’t try. That’s not Harry Flynn, to give up like that and settle for a pathetic life. I wanted to make a name for myself. I understand some sick fucks abusing a kid. I know there are sick, twisted degenerates out there, believe me, I’ve been introduced early. But how the hell did those assholes in that bar know? How the hell did Zoran fuckin’ know? That I’m … damaged? I tried my whole fuckin’ life to hide that. But they could always smell it out on me. That I’m easy to take advantage of. I was afraid people I cared for would smell it on me like they can. Like, Chloe… or Jerry. I doubt he’d even recognize what I am now. Far cry from the kid he took in.”  
Flynn had no idea what else to say. He poured out his whole past to Sullivan, the one man he never really come to bond with. He rolled the empty glass between his palms, finding himself… lighter? He never confessed his past to that magnitude to anyone before.  
“How come you never tried to look for this Jerry guy while in Cancun? We were just there, Flynn,” Sullivan finally asked, but Flynn could tell by his voice that the subject was something he had vastly underestimated. He was stunned, but Harry could not bear to look at him.  
Flynn only smirked gently, a rueful and sad smile. He did miss Jerry. “Because what would he see, Victor? A mess. I couldn’t drop that level of grief on him. He’s got a bad heart. That would only upset him. He’d… only regret what happened. I don’t want him to blame himself. It’s so far from his fault, nowhere even close.”  
Slowly, Sully rearranged himself to stand and stretch, the hour was late and the liquor taken its toll. Flynn did not move just yet, but he did flinch when Sullivan’s firm hand settled on his shoulder. “For what it’s worth,” Victor began, choosing words carefully. “You’re not damaged. You fought hard, kid. Fought harder than most men my age, in much shorter span of time. That makes you stronger than most, that’s saying something. Listen, I don’t know why this keeps happening to me, taking in delinquent boys… First the Drakes, then you…”  
“Drakes? Plural?” Harry’s eyebrow rose faintly. “You’re slurring your words.”  
“No. Nate had an older brother, long time back…” Sullivan sighed, his tone melancholy. He could tell it was a tough subject. “Nate was barely in his twenties when Samuel died. A job went wrong, they were to break out of a prison in Panama, but Samuel was killed in the escape. Nathan never recovered. He never talks about Sam because if he does, he can’t take the pain. It’s too hard on him. It’s been maybe… shit, eight years now? Still too raw. Flynn, consider this conversation part of patient confidentiality, but I’d ask you not to bring Sam up. Not until he’s ready.”  
I could understand too well on that. I never had a brother. The loss would be… indescribable. Flynn felt his heart ache for poor Nathan, the cheery and goofy kid that always brought a smile to his face. He never had so much as a clue that Nathan was not the only child. They never talked families. “Yeah… Well, looks like you’re down one kid then. Got room for another?”  
Sullivan chuckled deep in his chest, giving Flynn’s shoulder a soft pat. “I guess you want the position. Flynn, if Jerry could see the man you become today, he’d be nothing but proud of you. Hell, I thought you were just a pain in my ass but I’m proud of you and how far you’ve come. You’re doing just fine, kid. You been through hell and back but you’re here and you are going to be stronger for it. You might not see it yet, but I do. You’re doing just fine. And I’m proud of you. Now I’m gonna hit the head and pass out. You should do the same.”  
Flynn grunted in response, nonchalant and putting the glass down on the nightstand. He was glad Sully never looked him in the eye during that last part. He would have been embarrassed if Sullivan saw him shed tears, palming them away the moment he heard the bathroom door click shut. It meant a lot to hear those words.  
~~~````~~~  
It was the smell of it that struck him like walking headlong into a brick wall, a thick coppery stink that was familiar in butcher shops, in slaughter houses. There was underlying odors of piss, shit, and stale cigarette smoke, but the stench of blood overpowered it all like the fluid itself painting his childhood kitchen.  
The entire room was showing evidence of a brutal scene of prolonged struggling, from the small table and stool that have been thrown aside and having smashed on the impact of the weak paper-thin plaster. The wall itself was caved in where the table first struck with the stool, the insulation showing through. The drawers were ripped open, there was hardly much of anything left as his mother pawned off most the useful tools and instruments. A thick wood rolling pin lay on the floor at his mother’s motionless side, coated in blood, bits of long hair and some embedded skull fragments focused heavily on one handle. She was naked. Her housecoat had been ripped off and lay in a saturated heap nearby, equally soaked with the rest of the atmosphere with his mother’s lifeblood. The fridge was heavily splattered, a thick slimy chunk of tissue sticking to the front like a grotesque magnet. It took him a few dazed seconds to realize it was part of her brains. She lay on her side in an unidentifiable coil, swollen and both arms hideously smashed. Her attacker broke both her arms in the beating, as she tried to defend herself. The puddle on the floor was half-congealed, crusting under his sneaker-clad feet. Blood was everywhere, standing out stark against the originally dirty white cabinets, walls and ceiling. A few horrified seconds, he stared up at the white stucco ceiling overhead. Red spray-slash marks criss-crossed over the expanse, cast-off blood from a weapon used in a violent and strong manner. And it was so very quiet. So still.  
“Mum?” Flynn was shocked to hear not a child’s voice, but his own adult tenor. But yet, he was miming exactly how he had reacted before, trapped in a repetitive hellish recollection. He knew she was not going to answer. She was not even breathing. It was too quiet. Too still. “Mum? Mum, please. I’m scared.” He had saw this before. He had it played out over and over since his seven-year-old-self first made the discovery. But that did never stop the fear.  
Flynn knew what happens, feeling himself step forward and unable to resist it despite willing his feet not to move. He did not want to step in it, all the blood that covered the room wall-to-wall. He had to see. His sneakers clung to the tacky, drying puddle underfoot, reminiscent of sticky floors of a theatre. There was no answer. There never would be, never again. It was an abstract notion that made Harry’s child-mind change indefinitely: death. His only link to the world, his only biological family, was dead. As much as he grew to hate her over the years, Harry felt a scream welling up his throat, hysterical and distraught.  
“Mum, please… Please, wake up. Mummy, I’m scared.”  
“Why do you always wake me up, Harold?” came a rattling, throaty, bubbling hiss. Flynn’s heart leapt up in his throat, terror making his knees almost unhinge and crash down into the puddle. “Whining and whining and whining… That’s all you’ve ever done. That’s all you’re good for.”  
Flynn finally was able to grapple with control of his body, enough for one skidding step backwards out of pure visceral horror. He never expected an answer back. Getting one made him wish he never asked for her to wake up. His feet were stuck again. He could not move.  
“You think you’re too good for me? You think you’re too proud to be a whoreson? Look at you now. The only difference is that you never were smart enough to get money upfront before they fucked you.” There was a terrible jolting lurch as his mother’s corpse suddenly moved one leg, tucking the deeply battered limb under the hip to push itself onto its ass. It was a dreadfully clumsy movement, impaired by the stiffening of the corpse’s muscles with the beginnings of rigor mortis and the broken arms hanging limp and relatively useless at her sides. It turned to look at him, to face him, and Flynn felt like screaming. He wanted to so badly, but it was lodged deep in his chest and refused to budge.  
His mother hardly had a face left. It had been essentially caved in by a blunt instrument, no doubt the rolling pin he had never seen her use except as a threat for beating him. There was a gory hole where her nose and eyes would be, he could not make out where her eyes were in the disfiguring mess if they were even still there. Her jaw was broken and hung down slack, yet it bobbed as she spoke. Her tongue flicked and flopped like a dying fish out of water, shaping with words unhindered. Teeth and clotted gore slid down her front with the words that somehow were never obscured or obstructed or impaired by her fatal injury. Her once pale blonde hair hung in a matted, stained halo around her gaping mouth that now consumed her face. The voice resonated strong and hateful from the hole inhumanly. “Look at you. Haven’t changed much, nothing worth noting. Except that someone made you his bitch and marked you with it permanently. You’re disgusting, Harold. As much as you hated me, as much as you were disgusted by me, no trick or john or pimp ever left his mark on me like he did you.”  
“Mum, please,” he heard himself whimper, the few words he was able to choke out through the mindless terror. “Please don’t.”  
He wanted to leave. He doubted this pitiful corpse could chase him but his feet were not responding. But he could only watch with detached horror as the corpse of his mother crawled closer. Or, incapable of crawling, it slid forward across the gelatinous layers of blood and gore using its bloating legs, slipping forward on its ass. “Don’t what, Harold? Finish your fucking sentences when you speak to me. Stop whining. Why the fuck did you even wake me up for? Don’t you dare say it’s another storm again or I’ll beat your arse into next month.”  
“No,” Flynn whimpered, but already his feet were showing signs of movement again, wobbling and he took the opportunity to unstick himself and pivot to run. He was not even able to fully turn when two powerful hands wrapped around his throat and physically hefted him facedown into the neighbouring cupboard and countertop without much effort. His hipbones smashed into the solid surface, breath pounded from his lungs as he was shoved face-down into it. Delirious with fear, Flynn’s head twisted in the stranger’s grasp, fingers almost preventing the turn of his jaw.  
Zoran Lazarevic glowered down at him, steely gaze colourless unlike the splashes of crimson across his craggy features, streaking down his muscled neck. Flynn was horrified to meet his middle-age abuser in his childhood home, furiously struggling and bucking under his attacker but to no avail. He tried to scream again but it never so much as twitched from his chest, still hopelessly lodged. It took him a moment to realize that Zoran’s hands were coated with drying blood, his mother’s blood. The brute of a man was covered in it.  
“Oh, is that the one that marked you?” His mother’s rattling, revolting hiss came again, squelching closer through the filth. “He’s part of you now, Harold. He’s as dead as I am. If I’m dead, how come you still hear me? Oh, he’s here for you, Harold. He’s going to keep you company here for a long time.”  
Hysterical howls were retching at his vocal cords. He could feel Zoran’s left hand wrapped possessively around his throat, the other hand shoving his pants and boxers down in one swoop. The massive palm cupped his scarred ass, admiring his handiwork for a moment before one thick, dry finger probed between the cheeks and aggressively forced inside of him. Harry felt pain and tried to scream, wanting to cry, but he only pressed his forehead into the countertop. He could not bear to look at the shambling corpse of his mother or his deceased abuser actively harming him again.  
“Your whore mother is right. You’re mine now. From the moment you walked in that tent and I made you my whore, I owned you. You are mine. Time changes nothing. Your skin bears my name now. Try as you might to live, I will be here waiting,” Zoran growled viciously into his ear, the finger plunging in and out of him hard enough for the agony to stop him from inhaling. “You never needed any money to become a whore. You never needed the needle like your junkie mother. You just needed the promise of something big to put your name to, a fool’s errand. And look at you now. Needy. Desperate. You will never amount to anything, Mr. Flynn. Nothing but a body for fucking.”  
“He tells it true, dear,” his mother rasped in the other ear, how she was able to get up to that level, he was too horrified to even look. “I at least had cash at the end of a date. I had some smack to shoot up. I even gained a useless faggot whore son. What do you have now? You lost everything, everyone. You did see something great, a lost city explorers have tried to find for centuries. But you needed help to find it. You never could do it on your own. They didn’t even need you to get there. You were a plaything for the boss.”  
“Shut up…” Flynn groaned, struggling to rake in a breath between grit teeth as agony consumed him as Zoran started forcing in three fingers at a time. “Shut up… Fuck, please stop, you’re going to kill me…”  
“If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it,” Lazarevic snarled. “You lived out of sheer luck, Mr. Flynn. Luck and my good mercy. I could have squeezed the life from you like this.” The hand around his throat clamped like a vice, unrelenting in pressure as his breath cut off completely. He could only writhe under the grip, black spots dancing in his vision and growing, threatening to swallow him up. Twisting and jerking, Flynn smashed his own face into the counter to thrash free, forehead a battering ram. Finally, the fingers relaxed, allowing him to take in a harsh, whooping breath. All the while, the forth finger was beginning to breach, Harry was sure he was going to hemorrhage and die before Zoran was content. “I could have slit your throat. I could have gut you alive and tied you to a tree as an example for the men to die slow. You deserved that much, all the trouble you caused me. Now I’m going to show your useless mother what things I have taught you.”  
“Flynn?! Hey, c’mon, kid, snap out of it,” Harry Flynn heard only moments before a sharp sting lit up the left side of his face, a slap that the sheer clapping sound of impact made his ear ring. Watery eyes forced themselves open despite crippling terror of what he would see staring back at him. His stomach was churning wickedly, a cold sweat drenching his skin and making him shiver. It was pitch black only for an instant before a click illuminated the room, blinding him enough to cringe from the source and instinctively try to vault himself off the bed he was on in the opposite direction. “Hey!” Someone’s strong grip clamped on his bony wrist, trapping him in place against the headboard. “Easy Flynn, just settle down, alright? You’re going to wake the whole village.”  
“Where… where am I?” Flynn could only pant out, eyes still clenched closed from the blinding glare. His hands went to them and rubbed ferociously, feeling them slick and hot with tears. “I… I think I’m gonna be sick.”  
“Shit, hang in there, don’t spew right now,” the older male voice growled out, a hollow thud at his feet before he could struggle to try and open his eyes again. Instead, his hand clamped defensively over them, partially in fear, partially in protecting from the photosensitive piercing burn of his eyes. “Hang on, the light’s a bit bright.”  
There was another click, and when Flynn daringly let his hands drop down, he saw the night-lamp had dimmed to a fraction of the brightness. It was a rare time he could see the handiness of the dimming feature, previously the novelty was wasted on him. He could see he was in the hotel room in Alaska, still reeling with the sour bile taste in his throat. The nausea was overwhelming, he knew he was going to puke, it was a matter of when. He had time to glance around to see a very disturbed, sleepy Victor Sullivan seated on the opposite bed across from him. His silver hair usually so orderly now was shagged out from the pillow. He was in his boxers, having literally just rolled out of bed himself. Nathan Drake was nowhere to be seen, most likely still sleeping sound and undisturbed in the other room on the couch-bed. Harry had just enough time to glance around one more time, to really decipher what he was seeing before his head hung forward over the edge of the bed to vomit his guts out into the garbage pail at his feet.  
The thick scent of rum filled his nose, soured by stomach acid, making him want to retch again and again until he physically could not heave anymore. His throat burned and ached, wincing as he spat bile into the bucket. He was shivering, sweat dampening his skin and making him feel colder. It was eerily quiet, he lumbered up out of the bed and numbly grasped for the pail. Quiet like the dream. At first. He did not glance in the mirror purposely when he went to the bathroom to empty out the garbage and rinse his mouth out. By the time he crawled back into his bed, Sullivan was already back under the covers on his own bed. He quirked a brow inquiringly at the younger man.  
“You alright, kid? Sorry, but I had to slap you to get you out of it, you weren’t responding to anything.”  
Flynn could only utter a distracted chuckle, palming his sore face. After that? I think I’m going to need another session, doc. That one was a brand new level of depraved. Part of him wondered on why he dreamt of his mother for the first time in many years, he often shoved her from his mind. But the more rational side of his reasoning claimed it was because he mentioned her to Sullivan by re-telling his history. A distracted finger snagged the ring dangling at his neck, looping it in one fingertip. “No. Not alright.” His voice was hoarse, his vomiting spell made it sound rough.  
“Talk it out, kid. You’ll feel better.”  
The protest was on his lips, already shaking his head when it hit him like a tonne of bricks dropping on him from overhead, the emotional scaffolding already fragile and taken blows. A sob ripped up his sore throat, his body crumpling backwards against the headboard and both arms wrapping protectively around himself. Tears were flowing before he could will them away. He drew both legs up under him, shivering violently as the horror of the nightmare struck him again with fresh vicious detail. What the fuck was that? What was that?! How the fuck am I going to deal with a hell like that? I… I don’t know what I’m going to do. I think my brain is going to drive me mad.  
“Aw, shit, kid…” Sullivan groaned softly, getting up out of his bed again and going to Flynn’s side. Harry could not help flinching away, it came so naturally to him he pondered if it was his personality now but one brawny arm encircled his heaving shoulders and pulled him into an embrace. The sobs were hysterical, Flynn fought each one but they were pouring loose like a fractured dam leaking water. All the while, the embrace was constant, rocking him gently back and forth. “Hey. You’re alright. You’re safe now. C’mon, I know I’m not the prettiest this early in the morning but I didn’t think it was that bad.”  
The joke fell on deaf, distraught ears. Harry tucked his legs up to his chest and wept into his knees, all the panic, terror, disgust and confusion of his nightmare striking him full-force. Now that he had control of his faculties, he had to get out all the screams he felt worked up into some other form of emotional energy. He thought he would never stop. But, inevitably, Flynn found himself thoroughly exhausted in more than one level after many long minutes that felt like lifetimes, his tears having dried up and the sobs tapered to weak hitches in his breath. Sully was very patient, vastly more than Flynn had estimated. To take in a delinquent child like Nathan Drake, he probably had to be. Harry just never believed he would end up appreciating that.  
“You alright, kid?” Sullivan murmured softly at last, just as Harry seemed to become more responsive. Flynn nodded once, he did not trust himself to speak just yet. Not without clearing his throat and having something to say first. “Good. I was wondering if we were going to need a late-night trip to the hospital. You had me a bit worried there. You woke me up when you were still dreaming, mumbling something about someone killing you. Next thing I know, you were holding your breath. Fighting in the sheets like you were being attacked. Scared the hell out of me. You weren’t coming out of it right away. But you’re alright now, kid. You’re safe.”  
Harry palmed his sweaty, damp face, the first glimmers of embarrassment seeping in. Jesus, look at me. Blubbering away like a scared child. He had not expected another nightmare, let alone one that graphic. If that was the case, he might have slipped into Nathan’s bed to prevent it from occurring at all. “M’fine, git’off me,” Flynn rasped a bit, clearing his throat with a wince. It still hurt from the barfing. “Sorry ‘bout that, mate…”  
Sullivan slowly released Flynn, one hand lingering on his shoulder a moment more with a soft squeeze. Harry was afraid to lift his head, knowing his face would be flushed and his eyes puffy. “Don’t mention it,” Sully grunted, settling back down in his bed. “Do you want to talk about it?”  
Flynn did not want to. He wanted to go nowhere near it. But he could not stop himself, it was just spilling out of him like a sickness. “I was home,” he could only gasp, before forcing his tone to calm and to take a breath. “I was back home in my childhood house in London, the day I found my mum dead on the floor. It was… more real than the actual memory. I saw everything. The blood, the… the rolling pin that killed her. Her fuckin’ brains on the fridge. I begged her to say something, to wake up. And she fuckin’ did. Her corpse started… crawling across the floor, she was talking and I don’t know how she was doing it, there was hardly anything left of her face. She just kept coming. And… Lazarevic was there. He was just covered in her blood, it was on his hands, his face… Jesus, he just tackled me out of nowhere. He grabbed me by the neck, had me down on the counter, I couldn’t move… all the while, he’s trying to … to gut me alive with his fuckin’ fingers in my ass…” Another wave of nausea almost made Flynn want to retch again, so disgusted he could hardly fathom saying it aloud. “He… He just kept talking. They both kept fuckin’ talking.”  
“What were they saying, Flynn?” Sullivan softly urged, but Harry could tell he had certainly grown paler himself.  
Harry’s jaw steeled. No. No, I won’t repeat their fuckin’ words. They aren’t real. They’re dead, you moron. Your mother has been dead a very long time. She and Lazarevic never met. She died when he was probably a kid himself. “I… don’t remember,” Flynn lied, but not without a minor delay to make it at least believable like he was trying to recall it. “I don’t… It was hard to focus when my mum’s blood was on his hands. When… she was crawling….”  
“Okay,” Victor finally interrupted, rubbing his own weary face. “One hell of a nightmare, kid… Has it always been that bad?”  
Flynn winced, shaking his head faintly. That part was not a lie. It had been the worst nightmare he could ever recall. It had been a level of repulsive he was not sure his own brain could manufacture unaided. “No… That’s a first…”  
There was a soft grunt from the eldest, before Flynn tried to sink back under his blankets and sheets, very much doubting he would sleep at all despite the preparations. The night-lamp clicked back off, plunging the room back into inky pitch black. “You sure you’re alright?” Sullivan asked in the dark, a final inquiry. “I get if you don’t want to sleep.”  
“M’fine,” Flynn murmured quietly into his pillow. He already made the decision to wait for Sullivan to fall asleep before he was going to sneak off to Nathan’s bed again. “I’m really tired… Try to sleep again. Uh… hey, Sully? Thanks.”  
He could almost hear the older man smile as he spoke, an expression Flynn mimicked into his blankets. It had been the first time Flynn allowed himself to use Sullivan’s preferred nickname, a moment of bonding that solidified a new level in their interactions with each other. “No problem, kid. Get some rest.”  
It took about an hour of waiting in the pitch dark for Flynn to muster the courage to slip out of his double bed, attuned to the soft snuffling snores from Sullivan. The older American actually waited awake for a time, his breathing silent and even as he listened for Harry to stir again or show another sign of distress. But since Flynn never actually fell asleep, only faking his own soft inhales that might sound as if he did. There was one thing he did know, there was no way in hell that he was going to doze off again alone. He crept across the carpeted floors without problems, slipping through the door to the separate sitting room with pull-out couch bed. Flynn often never bothered with it, he just slept on the couch itself but Nathan preferred more space and comfort. He was sprawled on his stomach, his own soft snores relatively muted by the pillow. Without hesitation, Flynn slithered under the covers and crawled up into the bed beside the younger man, unable to suppress a shiver from the chill of having left the warmth of his own bed. Nathan did not react until Harry nudged closer into his side, flinching awake abruptly at the disturbance. Drake could sleep through anything until something got into the bed or touched him. Then he would wake in an instant.  
“The hell… Flynn?” Drake whispered, rolling onto his side to face the bed-invader. They could not see each other in the dark, but it had become more of habit to face each other in the late hours in bed. “Whassamatter?”  
Flynn had to ignore a soft flush, glad the pitch black hid his embarrassment. He hated blushing. It always looked more severe and obvious with his auburn colouring and fair skin when not tanned. “Nightmare,” he grumbled, keeping details minimal as possible. “Just… go back to sleep.”  
“Just now?” Nathan whispered back, tone inquiring and curious. “You okay?”  
“Shut up, go to sleep,” Flynn almost groaned, already making himself comfortable. “Just pretend I’m not here…”  
There was movement as Drake unfolded his arms and reached out, finding Harry’s shoulders and pulling him close across the mattress. Flynn made a growl of protest, but soon found himself settled into Drake’s chest yet again as so many times before, his cheek pressed to the spot and ear resting over the soft rhythmic thudding of Nathan’s heart. Drake had tucked one arm up along Harry’s hip, resting there comfortably instead of trapped under the man. “There…” Nathan sleepily murmured, yawning once. “Snug as a bug…”  
Flynn could not help but smirking to himself, one leg tangling into Nathan’s as he pressed into his side. Try as he might, he always ends up in Nathan’s bed so far. He acted as a comforter, a steady embrace to keep him soothed. His chin pressed into Nathan’s sternum as he glanced up in the dark, seeing only vague shapes he come to know that made up the younger man’s face. “Thanks…” he could only manage, mostly too ashamed to talk in knowing he already woke Nathan up.  
“Don’t worry, buddy,” Nathan yawned, already half-way between dozing and waking. Chapped lips pressed into Flynn’s scarred forehead, lingering on the spot that needed to be stitched from the kick to the face months before. Harry felt an excited squirm of warmth in his insides, surprised it was the second time that day Nathan kissed him. “I’ll keep you safe… G’night.”  
Good night, Nate. I dunno if you know this, but I think I’m falling for you. I know I cuddle more with you than I ever did my ex-fiancée. Flynn felt he might not have been able to sleep after the nightmare, but Nathan’s presence was a balm to an ache. He was safe, he knew that when Drake was close. Before long, his eyelids felt heavy and he did not remember much else.  
~~~````~~~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read at your own risk, it's gonna get hella dark

~~~````~~~  
“Hey, boys, wheels up in twenty minutes, let’s move it.”  
Harry Flynn could only stretch lazily, his head pounding and stomach roiling with the peak of a mild hangover. Not the worst he felt, he was only talkative drunk the night before, not black-out, sick and think you might be dying hangover. He was about to open his eyes when a calloused hand basically slapped across his face, enraging him at the rudeness of it and swatting back blindly. “Fuck off,” Flynn snapped, before he felt a startled jolt through the fold-out bed.   
“Oh, shit. Sorry, Flynn,” Nathan Drake apologized sleepily, yawning out in a trailing sigh. “I stretched and didn’t know you were there. C’mon. We can sleep on the plane.”   
Not exactly Flynn’s idea of a great start to the day, but other than spending the flight puking his guts out into an air-sickness bag and contending with a raging headache, he had better days. He also had worse. As it turns out, Sullivan and Nathan had a job lined up, something very minor compared to previous scores but too rich to simply pass up. To do so, they had to meet a contact in Italy near Rome. Much too busy for Flynn’s standards, so he kept his meanderings to the night hours only in his plans if they chose to linger for a day or two. Until then, bored out of his mind, Flynn had to wait for Sullivan to meet up with old art dealing buddies. Drake was stuck with Flynn on the plane for now, both idly lounging around. He could tell Nathan was bored. The younger American would have taken the opportunity to run wild and investigate the landscape despite the air-strip’s seclusion from the main population. And Flynn could not keep his mouth shut anymore.   
“I’ve been meaning to ask, mate,” Harry casually inquired at first, drawing Nathan’s aquamarine eyes inquisitively. His voice had mostly returned to its original tenor, other than his morning and afternoon vomit session. With a coy grin, Flynn could not help but tease. “I know I am a ruggedly handsome bloke, but why have you been drawing me?” I know you got a crush, Natey-boy. Come on. Spill it.   
The embarrassment was so clear and utterly hilarious, Flynn wished he had a camera. Nathan’s sun-kissed complexion reddened dramatically, every inch from his neck, tips of his ears to the top of his forehead ruddy with shame. Those eyes widened and dropped, going to the very journal in his hands he was flipping through moments before without aim. Without Sullivan hovering nearby, Harry was determined for a real answer. No childish avoidance. “Okay, it’s not what you think,” Nate blurted quickly.  
“I think it’s exactly what I think.”  
Groaning with vague humiliation, Nathan’s hands went to his face, journal forgotten in his lap. “Fuck. Okay. Maybe a bit. I never had any pictures of you, Flynn. And at Shambhala, I realized that you might not survive your injuries. I… This sounds stupid, but I didn’t want to forget you. I don’t want to forget your face. And… without a photo or anything, I knew it might happen, so I had to record it somehow. But you got better. Stronger. I kept drawing, I wanted to record the progress. Never good at actual journaling, pictures were more my speed. More intimate. I spent a lot of time looking after you, Flynn. Much of it, you aren’t aware of how long those hours were when you’re out. I always liked you, buddy. But not that way?”  
“Nate, you kissed me. Twice.” Flynn could not help it, still grinning. He was toying with Nathan’s bootlace, sprawled on the floor on his back out of discomfort of soft surfaces for so long. “I like some people too, but not enough to kiss them, yeah?”  
Exasperated, Drake dropped his hands into his lap with a sigh, glaring at Harry at his feet. But it was a difficult expression flushed like that, struggling to keep a straight face. “Okay, so feelings have changed lately. I never done this before, Flynn. You’re the first guy I’ve kissed, alright? Happy?”  
Knew it. Shit, I wish I had money placed on that with Cutter. I should have added an extra 20 quid if I was the first. Flynn laced his fingers on his chest, shrugging his shoulders as he stared back up at Nathan. His teasing grin lessened to a smirk. “And you’re the first guy I’ve kissed, or had kiss me. What of it? I’m not going to tar and feather you, mate. This is the 21st century. Everyone is fooling around these days, they just keep it secret.”  
Exceedingly less ashamed but still pink, Drake frowned gently. “You’re not upset with me?”  
Oh, Nathan. So far from it, you have no idea. Flynn reached one bruised arm up, actually having shed his long-sleeve sweater in favor of his previous style of v-neck tee of a muted grey. The various punctures from the IV needles were patching his arms purple and blue. “Flattered, really. But why now? We’ve known each other years.”  
The younger man worried at his lip with his teeth, considering his words instead of blurting as he often done instead. Hesitantly, he took Flynn’s offered hand, an inexplicable symbol of affection that somehow came about recently, since Cancun. As insignificant as these little gestures were to most people, to Flynn it was intimate as a kiss. “You scared me back there, Flynn. When you had the grenade at Shambhala… It was so quiet in there, I could hear a pin drop. All I could hear is your breathing getting worse and worse. Even bringing you out and waiting all that time in Nepal, I was scared shitless most of it. I… lost people, Flynn. I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you, after all of that. The thought of leaving you there with that monster’s body… I couldn’t handle that, I still have nightmares about it. And when you were getting better physically, I could see you aren’t yourself. I guess neither am I. Lazarevic made me realize a few things about myself there at the Tree. I mean, I pretty much killed his whole army.”  
Oh, if only that were true. No, Nate. Not even you are that heartless. Flynn managed another smile, relishing the rasping of Nathan’s calloused hands against his own. “You beat the living hell out of a lot of them and maybe buried a fair number but they aren’t all dead. Lieutenant Draza lived. As did many of the underlings. Injured and probably mad as hell. Doubling back after you blew the train, we found a lot of them in the wreckage still breathing. Draza, too. Unfortunately.”  
Nathan’s anxious gaze steeled, unexpectedly intense. “What? The big bastard that had the phurba dagger? Chloe shot him!”  
Yes. And we’ve both been shot too, dummy. Flynn scowled almost, quirking one brow. “Really, Nate? Did you not see the combat vest he was wearing? The man was built like a titan, not like us. He didn’t remember who shot him, luckily. We’ve both been shot and we’re both here. Use your brain, mate. Gunshot wounds don’t always mean dead. I mean, plenty of the injured got shipped out and reinforcements had to come but yeah. Not everyone died.”  
There was relief in Nathan’s eyes despite his efforts to conceal it, squeezing Flynn’s hand gently. “None of them hurt you, did they?”  
“No, Nate,” Flynn sighed, almost scolding him. “No. Believe me, I doubt I would have survived that. Some of those men were hung like literal stallions. We had to piss in rows, so what if I like to peek on occasion? I’m just curious what people are packing.”  
The blush was back on Nathan’s face, wrinkling his nose faintly as if to try and negate the flushing. Ha ha. Nate’s having dirty thoughts. “I’m sorry if you didn’t want to be kissed,” Drake muttered abruptly, looking ashamed again. “I should have asked.”  
The Great Nathan Drake, asking for a kiss instead of making the move himself? Flynn began to laugh, a merry chuckle that was oddly out of place in his ears. It had been a long time since he felt free to laugh like this but the thought was so remarkably funny he could not help it. Nate always made the first move on dates, Flynn watched his clumsy navigations of women in the past. “You’re kidding, right? Nate, come on. It’s not like you stuck your tongue down my throat. A peck on the forehead and a quick smooch on the lips hardly counts, even though the tongue thing always grossed me out.”  
“What?” Nathan sounded incredulously offended then. “It totally counts! That’s more than a handshake, plus what do you do at the end of a date if it goes well? You kiss. Not with tongue, just a little one.”  
“Oh, Nate, you’re such a prude,” Harry snickered teasingly. “Seriously? A kiss on the forehead counts? That’s what little old ladies do to their grandkids. You can do better than that.”  
“Is that a goddamn challenge?” Drake inquired, almost glaring again. “Because I can take you on it.”  
Oh dear, Flynn, what are you getting yourself into? This might be a bit soon. Fuck it, I’m running with it. “Try me, cowboy,” he beckoned, the words on his lips and out before he could stop them.   
The stubborn glint Flynn come to know Nathan wore in his eyes when confronted with a centuries old puzzle sitting unsolved, already slinking down off the couch and straddling Flynn’s hips before he could sit up and move himself. Nate did not bear his weight down, conscientious of Flynn’s previous tenderness and injuries but rather using the strength of his thighs to remain planted there. Drake did not release his hand, rather lacing the fingers and opposite joining Flynn’s other free hand to possessively claim it as well. Keeping his hands trapped and pinned to the floor on either side of his head, Flynn felt an anxious tinge deep in his belly along with the excitement. But mostly anxiety. He could not fool himself.   
“Whoa, there’s something new,” Flynn quipped, attempting to keep his voice level and relaxed despite the nervousness. “What have you been watching latel—“  
He never had time to finish the sentence, Nathan’s mouth mashed into his and locked his lips overtop, heeding Flynn’s mentioned disgust with tongue and avoiding the overzealous action entirely. Teeth and lips, instead, teased at his, nibbling, nipping and plucking the flushing petals underneath almost sweetly. Oh. Actually, this is nice. Deprived of affection and hungry for more, Flynn almost mewled gently into Drake’s mouth, demanding and needy with equal eagerness. There was no hiding the arousal curling in his belly, hot and stirring deeper into his loins. When they broke for breath, heady and almost dizzy for oxygen, Flynn was almost gasping in pants.   
“Fuck… Alright, you got something there,” Harry groaned, as Nathan’s venturing lips trailed down his jaw, suckling and kissing as he went. Flynn was almost thrusting his hips upwards now, desperate for some form of stimulation but still trapped. Shit. Was hoping to avoid this a while longer. Can’t fight nature, I suppose. Hopefully Nate can be coached through this? “Hey, sweetheart. Just go slow, alright?”  
The younger man paused, lusty but concerned eyes meeting his. “Slow? How much slower can we go?”  
Of course. Leave it to Drake to have not a clue about this sort of activity. This kid better have lube or it is going to be a no-go. Flynn had to inhale deeply before exhaling to clear his head, still pinned under Nathan’s weight. It was making it impossible to think, the smell of the man was driving him nuts. He just wanted more. “Nate, come on. Slow? Don’t just jackrabbit like you do with your dates.”  
Nathan blushed deeply, burying his face into Flynn’s throat. He could feel the heat radiating there. “I don’t do that, give me more credit. Just let me know if you’re hurting, okay?”  
“Oh, shut up,” Flynn growled, sinking his teeth into Nathan’s earlobe when an unpredicted lunge of his neck. The younger man yelped out in pain, jerking back and tugging his reddened, agitated ear free. “Just go back to what you were doing.”  
There was no need to be asked twice, Nathan’s teeth were at Flynn’s neck with vengeance, hungrily gnawing enough to elicit a bit of a squeal from the man trapped underneath him. Satisfied with the show of dominance, Drake’s lips ventured down further, planting rows of kisses along Harry’s collarbones. He scraped his teeth along the exposed notch of bone underneath skin, Nathan’s hands releasing Flynn’s at last from their extended lock to slide up under Flynn’s shirt. The rasp of calloused palms and digits on his bare sensitive skin brought a delicious shiver from him, a weak gasp of pleasure at his lips. Thumbs found his nipples, firmly pressing and kneading before lifting to gently graze against the pert nodes there and just skimming lightly. Ecstasy shot through Flynn like a chill, almost whimpering as his spine arched up into Nathan’s touch. Helpless against the onslaught, one hand only palmed through his own hair while the other wiped at the drool that slipped from his kiss-swollen lips.   
“Jesus Christ, Nate… Where did you learn this shit? More. Please. I need this,” Harry could only find himself breathlessly pleading. As Nathan slid down further, ravenously chewing and biting as he went, Flynn found his jeans were already working up around his thighs, Drake’s pawing more persistent as the waistband slid down the curve of his ass and resting at last at his knees. Only hiking Flynn’s legs up closer to his chest stopped it from being an obstruction. Lust was making him wild. “Fuck… more, now. Give it to me.”  
“Give me a minute, already,” Nate huffed between his own pants for air, leaving Flynn lewdly exposed as his hands flew back up under his shirt to caress and pluck at the pert nipples he teased to erect. “Look at you, so needy. What ever happened to going slow?”  
“Slow went out the window when you learned that trick,” Flynn growled throatily, his body quivering like the plucked string of a cello at each ministration. His erection lay flat against his stomach, another gasp at his lips when Nathan pinched his left mound, squeezing lightly. “Holy shit, just do it… Come on. I’m begging, what more do you want?”  
“Alright, alright,” Nathan grumbled back but not without a boyish grin. “Just give me just a second, I’ve been thinking about this forever.”  
Flynn was about to ask what when one of Nathan’s hands left his chest and cupped at Harry’s ass, the unscarred cheek and giving it a hearty, harsh squeeze. The older man moaned in protest, scowling. “The fuck are you doing, copping a feel? Seriously, are we in grade school?”  
Chapped lips were on his collarbones again, nipping and teasing at his chin and neck. “Did I stutter? Give me a second. Geez.” An exploratory rough digit slipped between his ass-cheeks, probing along the cleft before finding purchase at the puckered spot and pressing only cautiously at first to sink in the fingertip. The pressure alone was enough to bring a heavy gasp and moan from Harry, bare toes curling. Flynn almost squirmed his hips down onto the finger, desperate for more. “Go slow, Flynn,” Nathan sarcastically teased at his throat again, only poking the spot sluggishly. “Don’t jackrabbit on me.”  
“Would you quit it and just fuck me already?” Flynn snarled impatiently, unable to resist the words spilling out of his mouth. They came unbidden and reckless, something only a lust-fevered mind would allow themselves to blurt. “Honestly, it’s like I’m at prom again.”  
“You were at prom?”  
“No I wasn’t, fuck, Nate, just do it already!”   
The younger American chuckled above him, both hands leaving Harry’s sensitive, fevered body to work at his own belt and jeans. “Calm down already, I’m working on it,” he teased, sitting up to kneel and glance down to see what he was doing to fuss with the buckle. The metallic brush against leather rasped, a tinny tap of fingernails against the decorative buckle, the harsh buzz of a zipper.   
They were all sounds Flynn had come to know well. He never did have to see what was happening to recognize them, it was now routine. Like the position now, naked and on his knees, chest pressed to the floor. Zoran had zip-tied his wrists this time behind his back, for some strange new acquired reason. Lazarevic was mostly content with using his own strength.   
“Zoran, please!” Flynn cried out, utterly terrified of the wrath that coloured the man’s face. The loss of the phurba dagger not once, but twice was a humiliating blow. Lazarevic did not answer, slinging his belt loosely around his fist and letting the length hang down, a haunting pendulum. “Zoran, stop, I swear, I had it in my hand! I… I don’t know what happened. I gave it to Chloe, then—“  
“Enough!” Lazarevic spat viciously, rounding on him and letting his combat-pants fall just enough to expose the thick, veiny erection that so often caused him utter agony. The belt swung up and whistled down across his exposed, scabbing spine and lighting up the old wounds with new pain.   
“Ah-fuck!” Flynn only breathlessly whimpered, biting down on his lip as he resisted a scream. Chloe’s room at the monastery was simply down the hall from his, but the blizzard howling outside swallowed any chance of overhearing his pleas. “Please, no more. I had it! It was in my hand, you… you nearly stabbed me with it. Please, I just put it down just a second.”  
“I will put you down in a second,” Lazarevic threatened angrily, enraged at being made a fool again. “What good are you, Mr. Flynn? Other than losing my property and getting my men slaughtered, what use are you for me? You disgust me. Simpering at my ankles and singing loyalty while stabbing me in the back.” Another whistling strike, this one smacking down against Harry’s exposed ass and raising an angry red welt.   
“Zoran, no—FUCK!” Flynn nearly howled, tears running down his cheeks from his closed eyes. “Please… I’m sorry, Zoran. Zoran, no. I’d never do that, mate. Please, I will find it for you, I just need some time.”   
“Time is all you have now, Mr. Flynn,” Zoran snarled, one black-polished boot nudging apart his ankles. Flynn knew what that meant, he could only cringe and whimper with the swelling wave of fear and anticipation. A heavy thud signalled the giant of a man kneeling behind him, positioning his knees on the underside of Flynn’s to drive his thighs apart much against his permission. Leather looped around his head and fastened around his neck in a biting noose much to his panic and thrashing against the zip-ties, dreading what will follow. “Time is all you have. Those hours are numbered.” The belt tightened aggressively, biting into his windpipe and restricting his breathing. “Once I have what is mine, I will have no need for your excuses anymore.”  
“No, Zoran, please don’t!” Flynn screamed out of his sore vocal cords, scrambling and kicking under the weight that pressed him into the floor. Delirious and frightened, he tried to retreat his naked rear across the steel but could find no purchase. His panting wrenching in and out of him, but his breath seemed to catch in his throat. It felt like his chest was in a vice. “Please, I… I can’t move, I can’t breathe!”  
“Flynn? Flynn?!”   
He could not open his eyes yet, sobs tearing at him, but that voice was not Zoran’s. He was too scared to allow himself to see. All he knew was that he was trapped and his pants and underwear were at his knees. Hands padded against his face, feathery and gentle, but Flynn lashed out blindly and slapped at them knowing a closed fist could earn him a swift punishment. “Get off me!” Harry shrieked hoarsely, the weight only bearing down harder and trapping him firmer into the cool steel. “Zoran, get off! Please, I tried…”  
Hot droplets on his exposed stomach jolted him into reality, running into his navel in his caged position under the unknown man’s weight. It was unusual, enough to startle him into snapping his eyes open. It was not Zoran Lazarevic pinning him into the ground by the shoulders nearly, but a very disturbed, upset Nathan Drake. Fat, transparent tears were tracking rivulets down his agonized, cringing face, as if he was experiencing a very real pain or had just endured the vision himself. Flynn thought for a moment his slap must have done real damage, how he had no clue, but only confused and gawking up at the younger man keeping him restricted in place. Nathan’s tears fell on him, enough to somehow jerk him from his flashback.   
“…. Nate?” Flynn simply whispered up to the young thief, afraid to reach out and touch. “What… It happened again, didn’t it?”  
Biting his bottom lip to forbid a sob, Drake only nodded, hunching forward to enfold his body over Flynn’s protectively but also with intent to comfort and soothe. Lips pressed into his neck, hot breath and tears warming his skin. “Jesus, Harry… I’m so fucking sorry. It’s too damn soon, I should have stopped. I just kept pushing and pushing. Please, forgive me. I won’t push you again, I promise I won’t do it again.” He was almost babbling now, mingling with sobs. Nathan never cried like this, Flynn had never witnessed it for himself at least. He had either always been close or shed one or two tears at the most. He never wept uncontrollably like this. “I should have stopped… Oh God, why didn’t I stop? I didn’t want to scare you, Harry, never. Not after what that fucking monster did to you, oh God….”  
Jesus. I think I broke him. Fuck, Flynn, what did you have to rush into so soon? Harry found himself mostly embarrassed when he was just moments before deathly frightened, Nathan’s hysterical hiccups for breath between whines was enough to quell anything. Even more shameful, Flynn noticed his own erection had not completely died, but Nathan’s was basically soft when it was previously nearly jamming into his thigh. And I killed the mood with the only chance I had with him in forever. The hell is wrong with me? I think I just fucked up any chance I had with him, I think he’s more upset with this than I am. Harry Flynn, having spent much of the last few months in a perpetual state of fear and anxiety, found it was getting easier to manage coming out of. It was other people’s reactions to his episodes that were the worst. Nathan Drake always took them the hardest, the sensitive, kind soul that he is. Absently, Flynn reached down to wiggle on his jeans and underwear again back over his ass, needing to squirm under Nathan’s quaking bulk to do so. “Nate,” Flynn sighed, rather calm despite the earlier panic. “Hey, settle down, love. I’m okay, really.”  
The sobs never faltered off his neck and shoulder, only whimpering out in response unintelligibly at first. Nathan only seemed to curl into Flynn more defensively, both arms slinging around Harry’s neck and lifting his head from the floor to pull him closer into a weird, fetal hug. “N-no…” Drake whined at last, finding real words instead of sobs. “It’s not okay, Harry… I knew I should stop… But I didn’t. I forced myself on you like him. You were looking right at me, Harry. But you said his name.”  
Fuck. I guess I do need therapy or some shit. One hand cupping at the back of Nathan’s heated neck, the other rubbing the young man’s heaving back, Flynn could not help but sigh heavily. It was the damn sound of his belt. It’s another sound trigger. Fuck. If that’s going to happen every time someone unzips their jacket or fires off a round, I’m going to need a new job. “Nathan, just relax. Please. Just bear with me, yeah? I don’t know why, but your belt just… it’s the sound, okay? I’m fine. It was just like the fake gun in Alaska. Hey. Its fine, Nate. Sweetheart, I’m okay. You know, sometimes you’re too hard on yourself.”  
“Am not,” came a stubborn huff into his skin. The sobs tapered down to soft tremors and hitches of breath. Flynn grimaced at the slightly uncomfortable coiled position as Nathan’s arms tightened the hug. “I knew better. But I did it anyway. Jesus, I’m sorry, Flynn. It’s just been a while, y’know? I just … kept thinking about how good you tasted, how I’ve been wanting it but afraid to make a move. You asked to go slow, but that was anything but.”  
Flynn almost rolled his eyes, sighing out in a slightly exasperated huff. So we’re both randy as horny teenagers but my brain won’t let me. Great. “I was begging you for more, idiot. You were only doing what I asked. Now, get off me. This is killing my back.”   
~~~```~~~  
They just had barely enough to time to situate themselves, although hardly anything but a make-out and fondle session occurred. It was mostly getting Nathan to stop bawling before Sully moseyed on back to the plane, much to Flynn’s further embarrassment. The private air-strip actually offered a small traditional stone villa with numerous single bunks for passing-through attendants. Flynn just did not want to sleep on the plane with cramped conditions. It was far from ideal, not exactly a hotel, but they could not afford much right now. And Flynn could not stand Nathan eyeing him like a sad kicked dog, somehow feeling as if he himself is the one to blame. Sully, when he came in for the night sometime after, must have sensed something was up. The tension was a tangible force in the room, like humidity. It was sometime after that Flynn wanted to go for a walk, alone to clear his head.  
Harry Flynn often enjoyed going to nightly walks, well before all the madness of the chase for Marco Polo’s lost fleet. Beaches were his preferred paths, often barefoot across the wet sand. Rome was very different, the interlocking ancient stone streets and religious icons, churches hundreds of years old. It was all strangely beautiful to a thief, but it would almost be morally wrong to steal from a place like this. Harry was not a religious man himself, he found it difficult to believe in something when he was never taught it from birth, when religion was a bane to his mother. At midnight, the streets were oddly barren of the daily crowds of tourists and citizens other than the wild street cats that wandered about. Italy was infested with cats.   
It was while he aimlessly wandered and visually consumed each and every architectural marvel that he allowed himself to reflect on what happened and how to possibly address it. The sound on his own sneaker-clad feet on the cobblestones that rang in his ears now, not the metallic rasp of Nathan’s belt-buckle. I seriously can’t believe I fucked that up. Of all the times to have a panic attack, it had to be then. I haven’t gotten properly laid in months, since Chloe bounced into my bed back in South America. Hell that was a lifetime ago. And Nathan is a total doll. The fact he stopped at all speaks volumes. Most men wouldn’t stop. At least the ones I’ve tangled with. Flynn could not help but feel guilty. Flashbacks were becoming easier to handle when surrounded with comforting familiar faces. But Drake was pretty much traumatized by the ordeal during such an intimate moment. Like an emotional kick in the nuts.   
“Fuck…” Flynn muttered, running both hands back through his hair, not even really watching where he was wandering. “Fuck, Flynn, you really fucked it up now…” You messed up the only chance you had with him, basically. Nate will be shaky as he would on an old wooden bridge next he so much as kisses me. I should have waited. Would have been nice to know belts and zippers are something to look out for. It was deeply frustrating for him, Flynn’s struggle with his post-traumatic stress. He was not a stranger to trauma but it has been a long time since he was grappling this furiously, not since the wake of his mother’s murder. It took a lot for him to have a flashback then, like being exposed to the scent of blood and it was not troubling as it was now, it did not interfere with his life invasively so. Now he found himself facing the prospect of avoiding the objects that might potentially bring him back to those moments of terror and pain or enduring them. Avoiding guns is one thing, retirement to a peaceful life did not sound all that appealing but not the end of the world neither. But avoiding zippers? Belts? How the fuck am I going to function? How are any of my pants going to stay up on my ass? I’m going to be living like the Amish soon enough. Or maybe I’ll finally crack and end up in the nut-house, padded walls and all. Stoned out of your skull on the pills they stuff down your throat to keep you mellow.   
Stuffing his chilled hands into the pockets of his sweater with the hood drawn up to cover his slightly numb ears, Flynn scowled as he watched his feet as he walked for a bit. As beautiful as the neighbourhood was, he found himself venturing down the less picturesque streets, the darker alleys. It was easier to concentrate on his thoughts, but why he was so absorbed on them, he was not sure why. Maybe it was the fact he could not bear to face Nathan and Sullivan again without truly clearing the air. And Flynn was never one to come out and let it all hang out. Secrecy and unspoken aloofness was more his flavor. Sullivan knows what’s up by now. Nate was blubbering like a baby. As embarrassed as he is about it, what happened is too important to let go. Shame flushed his weathered, lined face, wondering just what Sullivan would think about Nathan and Flynn necking like hormone-flustered teenagers on the floor of his plane. If he gives us ‘the talk’ when I get back, I think I’m going to die from the sheer humiliation of it. I’m almost forty years old, ferfuckssake.   
“Hey, friend, have a light?”  
A voice beckoned Flynn from a shadow-drenched alley as he passed, accented English and out of place in Rome where most the locals scoffed in Italian at the ignorance of foreigners at these late hours. Harry Flynn, already skittish as a default lately, flinched backwards from the figure at seemed to pop out of nowhere. But he stopped himself from fleeing outright, the request more than enough to snap him out of his nervousness. Absently, his hands patted down his front over the pockets, brow furrowing. Where the fuck is my lighter? I could have sworn I put it in my pocket. Shit. It must have fell out in the grope-session. Still have my phone, though.   
“Shit, sorry mate. ‘Fraid not. Left it back home,” Harry explained hesitantly, wondering just why the hell someone would be requesting for a light when the sudden scent of burning tobacco was so strongly present here, the smoke still lingering.   
“Home? Where is home for a louse like you, Flynn?”  
An ice cold shudder raced down Flynn’s spine, skin breaking out into goosebumps as every hair on his body wanted to stand on end. That accent. It was so familiar. Serbian. His feet became unglued from the cobblestones, about to turn and run when he almost slid backwards into a very large immovable force that snared him like a predator would prey. He inhaled sharply, the start of a bellow or scream, something to alert someone, anyone nearby to help but a gargantuan palm slammed down over his lower face hard enough to daze. He found his feet actually kicking at the air as they left the ground, hauled up by a massive, tree-limb-thick arm hooked around his waist and pinned him against the enlarged chest of the giant holding him. ‘Zoran’, he almost would have screamed, but he knew that simply was not possible. If Nathan said Lazarevic was dead, he was well enough dead. He trusted him that much.   
“You dumb English bastard,” a throaty growl sounded in his ear, his captor’s identity slow for him to recognize but it came nonetheless. “You cost me everything, including my career and my retirement in wealth for the rest of my days. You might not have killed him, but you caused Lazarevic’s death. You should have died instead of him.” Lieutenant Draza. Fuck. I’m so fucked. Oh my God, why did I have to go out alone tonight?   
Flynn buckled and thrashed as much as the agony of the wrenching and writhing caused his healing ribs or recovering injuries, adrenaline making his heart race, but no matter what burst of strength his body gave him it was futile against someone so much larger and stronger than himself. One arm was trapped at his side, pinned in place but the other was trying to wrench the hand off his mouth, his howls and bellows fruitless by the effectiveness of the muzzle. The original lure-man sprung forward and grasped at his kicking legs, much to Flynn’s panic. There was the sudden squeal of rubber tires on stone before a large black cube van whipped around the corner, the side door opening before it even lurched to a halt before them. Fuck! No! No, no, no! Jesus, this is it, they get me in there, I’m dead. I’ll never see Nate or that old bastard Sullivan again.   
As much as his throat strained, Harry shrieked to the loudest he thought he could, his spine arching taut and bucking as he tried to worm his way out, slam his head into Draza’s jaw, anything, but he simply could not reach. His efforts only brought the gloved hand tighter into his mouth, painfully mashing his lips into his teeth. He tried to bite, gnaw through the leather but his jaw was muscled opened and locked by the hand-gag. Every one of Draza’s striding steps, despite holding a struggling adult man in a forceful abduction, made those last few feet happen so much faster than he thought. Flynn hoped he would have a few seconds of clarity, maybe being thrown inside and having a moment to orient himself to escape but Draza ducked inside with his captive backwards, to allow the lure-man to wrestle Flynn’s lashing legs into the vehicle. Dread was washing over Flynn quick, a dawning realization he was very much overwhelmed here and out-muscled.   
“You still got fight in you,” Draza snarled hatefully down at him, easily restraining the adult like he was merely a temperamental child having a tantrum. That was basically as much as the fight of life and death was doing for him, the lure had already managed to get inside by hooking each leg under his arms and bull-rushing in to the van. The door slid shut with a bone-chilling slam that Flynn felt in his very core. “That’s good. I like that. I thought Zoran was too soft on you sometimes, considering your failures. I will focus on correcting that mistake.”   
That’s it. I’m dead. I put off the inevitable only by months. Imagine that. Still the same fucks that led to it all the same. The van roared into acceleration, the vehicle speeding off and with it, Flynn’s hope for escape and survival. His heart was hammering in his chest under his ribs hard enough to hurt, hyperventilating under the fingers squashing down on his nose and threatening to suffocate him. Frustrated, he kicked and raged and cursed and howled but to no avail. He might as well be in a vice.   
“Go to sleep, pretty man,” Draza hissed down at him, enough that spittle flecked his face and made him cringe. The request was so ludicrous he could have laughed if he was not currently shitting his pants. “Sleep now.”  
Sleep? You can go fuck yourself, you seven foot Neanderthal, you’re lucky I don’t have my gun. He was about to cuss him out again under the muzzle but the restraining fingers went from his sore, bloodied lips to his throat and tightened hard. Fuck. No. I can’t breathe.   
“D-Draza… S-stop,” Flynn had time to choke out before he could not physically muster the words anymore, oxygen cut off, vision blacking and head swimming. Both his hands were clawing now, one still trapped and twitching, the other at the glove but unable to make one finger even budge. He tapped at hand, desperate to signal a burning need for air, but Draza would not relent. His grip only seemed to bear down harder at his growing desperation. His limbs were getting heavy, the resistance dying with his body. Flynn did not see anything else, just that mean, leering face glaring down at him from his deadly choke-hold. I’m sorry, Nate. I fucked up. I should have stayed.   
~~~````~~~  
Harry Flynn only remembered a fleeting moment in the gap of blackness in his conscious memory, although it was hard to tell the amount of time that may have passed. He only recalled coming to in a moving vehicle again, staring up at the ceiling part of the front seat when he realized he was laying on the van’s floor between the seats in the back. Draza’s boots were digging into his lower spine. He had time to struggle to lift his head before the vicious snaring grip found his neck again.  
“Back to sleep, sleeping beauty,” the giant Serbian snarled down at him. “We are crossing the border and need you quiet.”  
Border? Fuck. How long have we been driving? Oh my God. This is so bad, this is worse than holding a detonated grenade. Swatting weakly at the stranglehold, Harry Flynn found himself sinking back into that defenseless darkness again. That’s it. Every mile they drive brings me further from Drake and Sully. I won’t see them again… If they’re lucky, they might see what’s left of me when they’re done, like a series of neatly wrapped packages with my body parts in it. Oh God.   
The first sensation he slowly become aware of was how thirsty he was. He never thought he had spent the last few months so damn thirsty, perhaps the most he ever been in his life. His tongue felt like it was coated with sandpaper. Opening his eyes got him nothing, there was a pressure over his eyelids that indicated a blindfold and only pitch black. He could not even glimpse under the edge, flat to his face from the sheer tightness. His arms were numbed, elevated above his head as he sat up against a flat cool stone wall. Wringing his wrists together brought a metallic clinking, manacles encircling both and chained in place. He was so cold. It took him a minute to realize he was almost stark naked, only his boxers. He tried to speak out, but his voice was a weak rusty hiss. Clearing his throat and trying to work up a decimal of moisture, he was able to make himself heard.  
“H-hello? Anyone?” Flynn grimaced, his voice a gruff croak that hardly resembled what he was yesterday. The tenor of his tone echoed, his ears telling him it was a small room.   
There was a muffled voice on the other side of a barrier, possibly a door. He must have alerted his captors. Harry winced, slowly easing himself to sit up straighter and ease the tension off his cramping shoulders. His hands were numb, blood pinched off from the biting steel cuffs. His whole body ached, more accurately, his recovering wounds had never been jarred this badly since the actual infliction of them. There was a squeal of hinges needing to be oiled, a door swinging and a vague glow through the material of the blindfold.   
“Sleeping beauty awakes!” Draza’s merry growl greeted him, bringing another horrified flinch from him. Part of him hoped it was an awful nightmare. “Wondering if I pinched too hard and killed your brain. Would be a shame there, to kill a new plaything like that so soon with all that trouble to finally find you.”  
Oh fuck. This is worse. They’ve been trying to find me, this isn’t a whim they picked up on. Swallowing again to find the voice to make a sound at all, he grimaced as he licked his lips. It hardly done anything, his tongue was dry as they were. “What… Why? Why me?”  
There was a purposeful avoidance in answering the question, Draza’s heavy boots almost seemed to stomp over to him. He felt a shift in the air, a looming bulk crouching down before him before a vice-grip grasped his jaw and jerked his head up. Flynn winced, but remained still and compliant. He knew behaving was the best mode of survival.   
“Thirsty?” Draza’s growl snarled down at him. His breath stank of booze, making him wonder just how long he was out for, long enough for him and the crew to get sloshed.   
You know I am, you asshole. Flynn wanted to nod meekly but the powerful grasp on his jaw forbid any movement. “Y-yes… Please.”  
A glass lip of a bottle mashed into his mouth so hard he thought he chipped a tooth, wincing but eager for relief. “Drink up, pretty man,” the growling voice teased, tilting the bottle before he can prepare himself. The immediate burn made him realize it was not at all water but pure undiluted vodka, meaning to jerk his head back out of the hold but it was flowing into his mouth, flooding and threatening to choke or drown him. He had no choice but to drink, two bitter swallows managed before Draza yanked the bottle back. “Don’t waste it. Might be the first to drink in a long time. Maybe you can earn your keep. But I have a feeling about you, Flynn. Answer me this.”  
Spluttering and coughing the liquid fire from his throat and feeling it sting madly in his nose, Flynn could not shrink away from the gloved hand now fondling at his neck again, still sore from the twice-strangling. He felt a dawning dread at realizing his ordeal had really just begun with no potential end in sight other than a painful, lonely, humiliating death. “W-what…”   
“No matter the torment Zoran unleashed on you, the medic never once saw you for your wounds. I had the suspicion you might steal morphine or pain killers but all was accounted for. You refused it when offered when you were noticeably injured once. Why?”  
The stink of booze on the other man’s breath that continually wafted into his face was making him sick. The inability to see him was terrifying, the burn in his stomach from the vodka not pleasant but nauseating. “None of your business,” Flynn snapped, maybe the mild buzz giving him a burst of courage.   
“Wrong answer.” That massive encircling grip found his right ankle and brutally tugged it forward, straining his shoulder and wrists hard against the cuffs.   
“W-wait, Draza, w-what—“  
The grip tightened impossibly, words caught in his throat before a chilling snap echoed in the tight proximity of the room, Flynn stunned momentarily before the pain actually kicked in. Holy shit. He just broke my ankle. Oh my God. The white-hot laces of agony shot up his whole leg into his hip, tearing a scream from him that cracked his voice hoarse and made him want to spontaneously vomit. He felt like he might pass out, but the bump of booze made everything just vivid enough without overloading him to faint. Maybe that was Draza’s intention all along. When Draza’s grip released, Flynn whimpered as he felt the fractured breaks grinding against each other as the ankle flopped unnaturally now, unable to even move his toes on that foot. Scalding tears were in his closed eyes, soaking into the blindfold and slipping underneath to continue down his cheeks. When his cries became mild gasps of pain, Draza spoke again.  
“One more time, Flynn. You only have one more ankle. Why?”  
“Please, don’t… Okay,” Flynn panted, sweat slicking his exposed skin and making him shake in the cold depths of his prison. “Okay… My mum was a junkie, yeah? I don’t want to be like her. Plain and simple.”  
There was a faint pause, a slight one. “Plain and simple.” The tone made him nervous, devious and cruel undertones even his blindness could not conceal. Draza stood and his heavy steps signalled he was leaving, but to his horror the door to his prison never closed.   
No. No, no, no. What’s he going to do? Hopelessness was quickly taking over, Flynn knew well enough he was trapped now. There was the faintest glimmer of hope before, knowing he might be able to slip the cuffs somehow and fight his way out. Being crippled with a broken ankle like that disabled and hobbled him, he knew it was not just punishment but an intentional maiming to keep him contained. A frustrated sob was building, but he stubbornly bit into his sore lip to forbid it to surface. Nate. I miss you. Please, come get me. I never wanted you to save me before but right now I really need you here. I don’t care if Sully happens to be right with you when it happens, I need you both, please. He’s going to kill me. He’s going to kill me slow. Fuck, why did I accept this contract? It’s been nothing but grief.   
There were leering laughs just beyond his prison, like the door being left open only exposed his predicament to the other surviving troops that decided to follow Draza in his goose-chase. He could not understand the dialect but it was plain mockery, which was clear. The heavy boots thudding came back, the door closing behind them.  
“I’m back, pretty man,” Draza’s humored and cruel voice growled out, making him tense. “How nice you look, undressed for me like that. I would say you were just being a cock-tease but you are a whore, I’ve seen you perform.” Flynn tucked his uninjured leg closer underneath him, ready to kick if he had to. He did not like the sound of where things were headed. He also knew booze and men in groups made them heedless of any potential victims. But if Draza already lay claim on him, then it meant he would only have to keep his guard up around Draza himself. “Still hurts, beauty?”  
“What the bloody fuck do you think?!” Flynn almost wheezed angrily, his voice unable to raise any higher in his agony. The panic, the terror, the heartbreak was all sinking in at once, he knew he was approaching hysterical now. He could not stop the sobs and hitches of breath then, spilling out more desperately than anything he ever dealt with in Lazarevic’s clutches. Zoran preferred to extend things and prefer the psychological while keeping him useful. Draza went right for permanent damage without hesitation, crippling the only asset Harry had: his skills as a thief in climbing and agility. Lifting the limp, hanging ankle sickly dangling from the extremity of his leg was enough to make him want to pass out even if it meant being vulnerable. “Oh fffuck…. You broke it, please, I need medical attention. Please!”  
“Bloody fuck, hmmm? I like the sound of that. You seem to like it that way,” Draza rasped headily, a lewd pant in his voice that made Flynn immediately feel queasy. Not being able to see was making the anxiety full-blown hysteria. The vice-grip found his broken ankle, just above the fracture and wrenching him forwards again and bringing a new scream out of his sore throat. “I will give you the medical attention you need, pretty man. Don’t worry.”  
If he thought shit could not get worse, he was wrong. Flynn had a moment of utter blank confusion in the haze of wailing in excruciating pain, a sharp sting jabbing up into his thigh that he come to know very well since being nearly fatally shot. A needle? No. No, he wouldn’t. “What the fuck did you do?!” Flynn had time to screech out before the bizarre enveloping warmth traveled up his leg and spread through him, numbing the mindless agony to a mild tolerable throb. His strength ran out of him like water through a leaky sieve, slack against the manacles trapping his wrists. His bellows and screams faded and reduced with each beat of his heart, soon he found himself only passive and calm and surprisingly… He felt good. He did not have to ask to know what he was injected with, it was clear Draza had went off to the medic to secure that taboo medication, the one that turned his mother into a prostitute for heroin after an injury when she was young. Morphine.   
“There, much better, right beauty?” Draza almost attempted to coo, it only emitted a raspy, rough growl that made him wince through the haze of intoxication. His captor coolly released his broken ankle and let it thump to the floor, but Flynn hardly flinched and gasped. “Much better. Look at you, prettier than some women back home. Pretty colour of your skin, hair… Zoran may have claimed you before, but like his duty and his mission, his property goes to me.” The last word was punctuated by a firm jerk of his uninjured leg that sprawled loose after the first wave of the high hit. He felt his boxer-clad rump skid across the cement floor, only a tiny tickle of fear instead of the panic attack he was on the verge of earlier.   
This… this isn’t so bad. This actually feels really good. Is this what mum felt every time she used? I could see the allure now. Hell, I could see why the fuck not. His head almost hung backwards limp as Draza clawed at his silk boxers and tore them to pieces instead of simply pulling them off, strangely distant and indifferent to it. I could see why she used before clients. This makes everything easier. If Zoran had the sense to give me a hit of this before each time, I’d be skipping into his fuckin’ tent. But I know what it does. I know what it turned mum into. I’ll be so sick and addicted before I know it. I’d be fuckin’ useless too. Couldn’t do anything but want a hit, that’s all I’d want.   
The sound of Draza shedding his belt and pants with an eager, excited grunt brought him back to reality, or at least whatever drug-addled haze was his reality now. It was not long before those leather-clad palms and exposed fingernails scraped at his skin, Draza still wearing those stupid fingerless leather gloves he always seemed to prefer. Being unable to see made the situation brutally terrifying before, but now it was oddly soothing, Flynn was even closing his eyes under the blindfold. Rough calloused digits played at his bared chest, viciously pinching at his nipples. It reminded him briefly of Nathan and their interrupted romp, a pang of longing spiking through the haze deep enough to hurt. Nate would not aggressively twist and squeeze like this, not determined to elicit a whimper now despite the numbing effects of the morphine. Nate. Please, come get me. I’m so scared. I miss you.  
“Mmmm… Gorgeous,” Draza growled possessively, although Harry truly did not comprehend how unless he was a lusty advertisement for sadists. His scars and fresh bruises made him feel disgusting, repulsive. He thought the marks would have the opposite effect they seemed to hold on Draza. “Look at this. A love bite. Someone had you earlier, you slut.” A blunted fingertip roughly traced a slightly irritated mark on his chest, one of Nathan’s excited nibbles that might have went too hard. “That is fine… Means I will have to claim you as mine now.”  
“Get off me…” Flynn rasped out softly, hardly able to lift his head as his hips were roughly grabbed. One massive snaring grip actually almost encircled his thigh from the underside of his knee, purposely and perversely posing him to reveal his genitals and ass to his captor. The freed leg, his fractured one, lay slack on the cold floor. He could not move it. He could hardly move anything. He felt like he was about to doze off, nodding out but the brutal, cruel exhibition of his naked body kept entrapping back into consciousness, or what passed for it now. “You bastard… Get off, now.”  
Something blunt and dry pushed urgently against his puckered anus, encouraging a startled spasm from him. Rattling the manacles done nothing, they were still trapped and much too tight to wiggle off. It was too small to be Draza’s member, he was not stunned enough to be unable to recognize it. It was a finger, circling the muscled ring teasingly and bringing a shiver much against his will. “So tight,” Draza almost exclaimed, as if surprised. “Whore like you? You must have taken a long break. Looks like your lover earlier didn’t get that far.”  
“Fuck you,” Flynn spat, unable to supress the rage through the high.   
“The idea is to fuck you, Flynn, not me,” came a humored chuckle. The finger withdrew, Draza shuffling closer to press in between Harry’s parted thighs. “Hold on, beauty. You’re in for a ride.”  
“W-wait…” Flynn whined, shaking his head weakly against his straining arms. “Okay, just wait… Can… can you at least lube me up first?” Fuck, I hate that you’re making me ask this. I hate you, you son of a bitch. Nathan is going to kill you, you giant bastard. He’s going to kill you for real this time.   
There was a loud, obnoxious laugh that made Harry cringe again, both abusive, clutching hands on either of his thighs now, forcing them provocatively open. “Ask me nicely.”  
Oh Goddammit, that’s it, you are dead you prick. I can’t wait to see you die. Harry had to swallow the bitter humiliation like bile, grimacing as if he tasted something foul. “Please…. Draza, please, can you lube me up before you… do what you want?” His cheeks flushed crimson, he did not need to see his own reflection to know that from the burning of his face. This was easily one of the top ten in shameful experiences in his life even with the morphine flowing through his veins. But he wanted to live. So desperately, he just wanted to survive.   
Another chuckle, this one throaty and washing that boozy breath over his face. For one horrible moment, Flynn was sure Draza was not going to do it. Maybe it was just a taunt to get him to humiliate himself further as if it were possible. “Since you asked so nicely.” Draza’s breath left briefly from his face, moving down his nude, crowded body until it came to his groin and ass. Anxiety welled up in his chest and surfaced as a nervous whimper, a tiny sound he was not sure he made at all until Draza laughed again. “So scared? It’s okay, beauty, I will take care of you.” A wet tongue was lapping at his exposed pucker now, giving it three greedy flicks before a spat a thick glob of saliva against it.   
Flynn had to swallow to stop himself from puking. He wanted to throw up. But he was afraid of what would happen if he did. His body was responding against his repulsion in the act itself, shuddering from the stimulation. This is so disgusting. He’s so much worse than Zoran. At least Zoran just wanted to get his rocks off and let me go. Draza… He sounds like he wants to keep me. The thought was so chilling and disturbing, Flynn felt faint. The concept of being kept as a sexual slave or a human pet by his sadistic enemy after being kidnapped was beyond horrific. Part of him hoped this was all a fucked up dream, that he was still snuggled into Nathan’s side after too much rum and warm and safe in bed. But the earlier sickening pain of his broken ankle blew that theory out of the water.   
“Nice and wet now, pretty man. Ready? I think you are.”  
Shit, here it comes. Put off the inevitable. ‘Least he had the decency to do what I asked, however pathetic. Nathan, please, wake me up if this is a nightmare. Sully, anybody. Please, let it be a nightmare, a bad dream. I never ask for anything, God, please!  
His position must not have been accessible for easy reach, the manacles were much too taut to be pulled closer. There was a muttered foreign curse, spittle spraying Flynn’s nude body. “No matter, you won’t be going anywhere anymore,” came a harsh whisper and Flynn must have nodded off again because he jolted aware when he crashed to the floor when the manacles taut chain went slack and he slid onto his side. His shoulders were so sore despite the powerful daze of morphine, his hands numbed and unable to respond. “Longer leash for the new pet,” Draza growled above him as he shuddered on the floor. “Behave yourself and you won’t be hanging from your wrists.”  
Fuck. I thought he let me go but I could still feel the cuffs. I’m still trapped. Okay, Flynn. You got this. Bide your time. This isn’t a dream, I know that now. But I need to live, long enough for Nate and Sully to track me down. Somehow. I don’t know how, but they will, they always do.   
Harry Flynn was abruptly yanked from his thought when his bare skin rasped across the exposed concrete as his hips were seized and dragged closer to his attacker. A weak protest was on his lips but he found it hard to talk out loud when he was still so thirsty and his throat ached, trying to tug his arms down as he lay flat on his back but finding the chain snagged just short of bringing them past his own head. Longer leash?! I can’t move! But he knew that was what Draza wanted. He felt those leather-clad palms hook under his thighs and press urgently into the underside of either knee regardless of the fractured ankle hanging grotesquely at the perverted position. His legs were virtually trapped against his own body. There was a lusty, satisfied groan of approval above him, and Flynn found himself oddly grateful for the blindfold. It was easier to pretend he was elsewhere. Or better, that he was somewhere with Nathan and it was not a sadistic vengeful enemy instead. Just pretend its Nate. Fuck, that’s so sick it’s wrong. Nathan would never do this. But I can’t be here right now. I won’t allow it, not if I don’t have to be.   
Hot breath washed over his chest, eliciting a soft shudder from him. It stank of liquor, making him feel nauseous again. Before he could ask what the point was, the man’s hot tongue found his sternum and slid down tauntingly. A tremor of revulsion he could not hide, skin crawling. “That’s it… You’re mine. Open wide, beauty.”  
“W-wha—“ Flynn almost stuttered out, perplexed by the request but the blunted tip of something thicker than a finger and much warmer prodding against his slicked ass brought the flicker of dread again. Flynn shut his mouth then with a click of his teeth, gritting them stubbornly to forbid as much as a whimper. That’s it. I’m not giving him anything. He can take all he wants from my body but that’s all he’s getting. I’m not giving this asshole the satisfaction.   
Draza was not one for kindness or patience, he speared into Harry’s body fully with one constant, harsh shove that would have normally brought a bloodcurdling scream from him. The pleasant warmth of the morphine still hung on strongly, numbing his whole body to the worst of the trauma and putting an emotional blocker on the maelstrom of anxiety and terror. That did not stifle the uncomfortable fullness he felt, Draza might be inhumanly large for a man but his member was oddly proportional to him. Despite Flynn’s playful declarations with Nathan on the plane earlier, Draza was not hung like a stallion by any means, lucky enough. He was longer than Zoran, but lacking the same girth that threatened to tear him in half. But he did flinch at the pressure in his abdomen, uneasily stirring out of his opiate daze with a soft whine that overrode his discipline.   
“Fuck, tighter than most women,” Draza groaned deeply above him, the shame making him flush with his face burning. One palm left his useless, broken leg and let the limb hook around his hip, before lying his hand flat onto Flynn’s abdomen where he felt the pressure with each slow push of the pelvis colliding into his ass. “Feel it here? Feel good?”  
Anything but, you asshole. Through the morphine haze, Flynn had to admit it fuckin’ hurt. His broken ankle was grinding the fractured pieces together with each twitch, each tiny movement and Draza was disregarding his new injury all together and forcing the limb to remain curled around his waist and each thrust banging the foot and making the numbed nerves still sing. His recovering ribs were very sore, the pressure on his abdomen paining both sides and lighting up his torso. Breathing hurt only mildly, but not compared to everything else stacked on top. And Flynn was too weak and lethargic to resist. He could not even shift his weight to get more comfortable at least. Just pretend you’re somewhere else, Flynn. Nothing else you can do but wait. Wait and hope Sully has another trick up his sleeve if Nate has nothing. They’re coming, you just need to bide your time.   
Rancorous laughter and cheers through the door, Draza growled possessively in response but seemed goaded on by the energy nonetheless, rutting down into Flynn hard enough to skid him back and forth across the concrete inch by painful inch. The door is closed, how are they seeing this? The hand gripping his knee snagged down to his uninjured ankle and he felt a surge on brief panic before he found it relocated up to Draza’s bulky shoulder. “Flexible, too,” Draza snarled hungrily, teeth mashing into his chest and biting hard enough to break skin. “A born natural whore. Best give the camera a nice view.”  
Camera? The first real pang of dread since his forced drugging came about, but it quickly seemed insignificant in the circumstances he was facing. His intact ankle trapped up at the impossible, uncomfortable crook, Flynn knew the exposure was bad and deeply intimate. He knew Draza was doing it purposely now, positioning him to be seen by a lens. The confusion must have been notable through the ordeal, because Draza laughed cruelly into his face and bathed him with booze-scent again.   
“Yes, camera, pretty man,” Draza almost cooed, both hands now fondling and caressing over his exposed flesh as he bucked away and Flynn felt like he was slowly being impaled. “We need to give the men a nice show, if they cannot play with you themselves. You’re mine now. But I also want to give your friends a copy, one video for every day you are here to show what happens when you cross me. One copy to your woman when we find her. One to that American prick Drake.”  
The dawning horror was more than what the morphine could numb. He wanted to scream then but forbid himself from it. He was terrified, scared shitless, shivering almost violently in Draza’s capturing hold. He felt sick to his stomach, being jostled with each ramming thrust into his hips hard enough to bruise. The sound of flesh slapping on flesh and mild squelching was almost surreal to his ears, when he was usually often screaming and crying during such ordeals. Admitting Draza and his weak attempt at lubing him was a tiny lifesaver, but nowhere near what he needed for comfort. But as bad as it was, the thought of his loved ones getting a video of his torture in captivity was worse.   
Oh my God. He’s going to send them videos of this shit to Chloe and Nate. Of this. I… I don’t know what might happen then. Flynn was utterly at a loss on how Chloe might react at all. He hid his entire history from her, including the near daily abuse from Zoran during their employment. How could anyone react to a seedy mysterious video that they receive out of nowhere, to see their ex-fiancée being held prisoner in some unknown location and physically tortured, sedated, viciously raped and who knows what else might occur before it ends? How could Nathan react? Flynn felt sick thinking about it. It would kill him. Or worse. It might change him into something he isn’t. Something mean and hateful and angry. Something that won’t resemble what I fell in love with. I don’t know what Sully will do. How he might react. I’m hoping it won’t come to that. They don’t have a permanent address.   
Flynn realized he must have nodded out or simply went elsewhere in his head, but when he was brought back into his prison, Draza was growling throatily as his deepening thrusting grew rougher, more erratic. He had no idea how much time passed for his rapist to finish, but he felt wiry pubic hair press hard into his groin and ass when he hilted, a warm bloom flooding into his bowels when he emptied his load. The shame was perpetual. It never left since the drugging and it will be here to stay, he knew that much. Panting in his post-orgasmic bless, Draza pulled out unceremoniously, leaving Flynn’s sore hole gaping much to his dismay and disgust.   
“A beautiful fuck,” Draza snarled above him hungrily, and Flynn suddenly found both his legs pressed to his own shoulders with one gargantuan arm, nearly folding him into the floor. The second palm cupped under his sore ass, right under the pucker that was ravaged viciously. “Push, beauty.”  
What? The fuck is he going on about now? More annoyed than upset, Flynn wiggled. “I can’t,” he rasped back, honestly unable to muster the strength.   
There was a disappointed ‘hmmph’ before Flynn found the position only subtly shift, Draza back between his thighs to keep them pinned open, hand still cupped under his ass, but the other now palming his abdomen. “Push,” came the demand again.   
Clueless on what the hell he meant, Flynn just squirmed under the hand on his abdomen, the pressure bearing down uncomfortably. “I can’t!” Flynn snarled back, frustrated with the request he found he could not execute without the muscle to do so.  
A fist smashed into his belly hard, pounding the air from his lungs with the jab. Confused and terrified, Flynn writhed and struggled again but unable to so much as budge an inch with the possessive, demanding force shoving back at his attempts. Wheezing for breath, Harry went still to comply, the fist flattening out and pressing firmly, urgently, massaging down on the same spot he felt the rapist’s dick was about to erupt out of moments ago.   
“Push,” Draza spat angrily, and Flynn only whimpered. He could not even breathe. He was straining to push, truly, but nothing was happening. But his efforts must have proved unnecessary, Draza’s persistent kneading and beating on his abdomen brought a dribble of semen to trickle from him and pool into Draza’s palm. “Good girl,” Draza growled hungrily again, pleased with the result. “Time to mark you as mine on the outside too.”  
Flynn cringed with utter repulsion and disgust as he felt the warm fluid smear into his chest and stomach on his skin, rubbing like it simply were lotion instead of his rapist’s spunk.   
“Lovely,” Draza sighed happily, his efforts pleasing to him. “It is late, beauty. Time for me to sleep. I will see you in the morning.” A cum-coated finger caressed his jaw, but Flynn could not so much as twist away with his head mashed into the wall. “Sweet dreams.”  
Rudely and abruptly, Flynn’s body was suddenly left sprawled and splayed when his rapist shoved himself up and off him, heavy boots trudging out the door. Once it slammed, there was a victorious set of cheers and laughs, jeering comments in a language he never bothered to learn. All the good Serbian would do me right now? A drop in the bucket with a fuckin’ hole in it.   
Flynn was exhausted despite what happened, the morphine was draining his desire for consciousness. Remaining partially stretched on the floor as he was left, he left his eyes close under the blindfold. This is so different than going to bed the night before. We were in Alaska. I was in bed with Nate. He just kissed me, again that night. I miss him. I want to be in the same bed with him now, I don’t care how bad it is. Broken ankle and all. Look at me now. I wonder what they’re doing right now. I wonder if they realize how bad it might be.   
~~~````~~~  
Harry Flynn came to sometime later, simply curling himself into the concrete floor to try and keep warm in the chilly room in his nudity, but the fractured leg dragging on the ground was enough to elicit a new, coarse scream from him and jerked him from an uneasy sleep. The morphine wore off, that was clear. His whole body hurt so bad, so much worse than earlier. His arms and shoulders ached a steady throb with each tiny twitch of muscle, the pressure of near-hanging from his wrists for possibly hours the day before was hard on him. His ribs all felt broken, not just recovering, although he knew that was not true. Breathing hurt. His throat was so dry, it pained to speak if he could at all other than a hiss or whisper. His pelvis as a whole was excruciating. His wounded leg slid on the floor but the ankle did not come with it, gruesomely out of place and irregular. Harry nearly vomited from the agony, his ankle was so swollen it felt to be twice the size. Manacled hands clawing at the blindfold over his face, he tore it off with another frustrated, angry shriek.   
The room was dully lit, but a weak yellow incandescent bulb glowed overhead, cobwebbed and dusty. His prison was more like a closet, larger than most closets he had seen but too small to be a useful room, it was clear this one had a sinister purpose by the way it was outfitted. The floor was harsh concrete, a drain in the middle of the floor that spoke volumes with its presence. The walls were barren, cold, cinderblocks stacked and mortared with cement. A door was the only domineering feature he could see, painted red and made of wood. There appeared to be no lock, giving Harry another tiny hint of hope. His manacles were attached to a single chain that ran the height of the wall he was previous propped against, iron rings bolted into the surface keeping it restricted to however his captor wished. The pulley system it was attached to was out of his reach, on the left beside a simple wood chair. He did not immediately see a camera… until he trained his blurred, light-sensitive eyes into the far corner of the ceiling, a single red light a beacon in the yellow haze. Fuck. That’s not a cheap security camera neither. That’s a fancy one, the one you see the rich tourists sometimes lugging. HD options and probably night vision, willing to bet my ass on it, all the good it is now.   
“Fuck,” Flynn whimpered softly, unable to restrict the single obscenity from escaping. It made it easier for the rest, all the panic, terror, all the worst of his fears that the morphine high masked now back with a vengeance. He was beginning to hyperventilate, breathing heaving in and out as he shook uncontrollably. “Fuck…. Fuck, what am I going to fuckin’ do? Fuck… Nathan? Nate? Sully? If you can hear this or see this… please, come get me. Please, I know I’ve been an asshole and everything but I can really use you here now, mate… Please.”  
His desperate pleas were unanswered, like they have been so often in his life. It took time to accept it could take days for Nathan to find him, maybe weeks. He prayed it would not come to that, not with Sully working along with him and maybe even Chloe’s efforts if she was contacted. As deeply humiliating as it would be, a rescue was sorely needed. But he took inventory of his belongings, finding he no longer had any. His silk black boxers were shreds on the floor, but it was the only thing he had on him at the time. The watch and bracelet usually on either wrist were gone and replaced with the manacles. His necklace and his mother’s ring were gone. There was another inexplicable surge of frustration and vague fear, his mother’s ring was so stupid and insignificant in the gravity of the situation but it was the one thing he kept all those years.   
It could have been hours more by the time the door to his prison finally swung open, blinding him with a bright light of the room beyond his dark, dank prison. His arms could not be brought to cover his eyes from the angle he lay, but his leg was too sore to dare move. Draza’s hulking form nearly blotted out the light before the door slammed again and he was alone with his tormentor.   
“Sleeping beauty!” Draza exclaimed happily, a grin on his face under those stupid sunglasses Flynn absolutely hated from the first point he saw them. He found he loathed them more now. “Took off the blindfold, uh oh, tut tut. Manners. We need to put down ground rules. Blindfold stays on unless I take it off. You didn’t know, first time is free.”  
Flynn had time to growl a protesting snarl before the black blindfold went back around his eyes and tied tight enough to bruise, pinching on strands of his hair caught in the knot. “Why are you doing this?!” he coughed out, grimacing from the hoarse tickle in this throat from dehydration.   
“You know why, you British piece of shit,” Draza growled back, one gloved hand seizing his neck and pinning his head to the floor regardless of his furious struggling and squirming. “You cost us everything. Our reputation, our leader, our jobs, you made us fools to the world. Now we will make a fool out of the one that helped do it.”  
“I didn’t kill Zoran!” Flynn only barked angrily, not sure if he should be nervous or relieved that he did not smell booze on Draza’s breath washing over his cold body. “I didn’t! Zoran got killed by those Guardian things, you seen them! Why blame me?”  
The grip on his throat tightened cruelly, Flynn thought he just might pass out again from the intent of it, uninjured leg writhing as he fought for oxygen. But the grip relaxed, allowing him to suck in a breath that felt like razors down his throat into his lungs. “You joke, surely. Because you are to blame. Zoran is dead because of your actions. You should have blown up with that grenade he gave you, to kill the other annoyances. You failed to do so, cowardly as always. No grenade blast, no warning. They were unprepared, I was injured and not there but if I was, the circumstances would be very different.”  
“Big words for a dumb lug like you,” Flynn hissed under the grip. “Seriously, piss off. Why bother? Shambhala is gone, the Tree of Life is destroyed and all the sap with it. I saw it all go up in flames. Go get a fuckin’ job like a regular guy and move on, mate.”  
A fist slammed down into Flynn’s abdomen again as it done the night before, but this time with intent to hurt and winding him hard. His body’s hungry heaves for oxygen were awful and whistling wheezes and grunts, his abdomen tender and he wondered if he was going to die this way. Internal bleeding from blunt force trauma, a beating gone too far with a man that had no clue about his own strength. His skin was clammy with sweat, a reflex of the agony he was being subjected to in multiple fronts. “S-….s-stop…” Flynn spluttered at last, intact leg tucking closer to his chest and abdomen to prevent another strike.  
“You always had a big fucking mouth, Flynn,” Draza spat down at him, the disgust in his tone thick as the accent. “Intention was to catch all three of you, Drake, and the old man but they never made it easy to approach. Not like you. Stupid. What Zoran saw in you outside his tent, I will never understand. You were the dumbest of the three thieves, dumber than your own woman. They betrayed you and you still protected them. Stupid. I’m showing you how stupidity can ruin your life, or end it. Give me another fucking reason, you cheap slut.”  
The burning rage died in Flynn’s gut, replaced with cold, damp fear and anxiety that doused it to nothing. He felt the words were not entirely wrong, making it worse. Compared to Drake, he did feel stupid at times. Nathan was an intellectual natural, he translated Latin much faster, and always seemed to be a few steps ahead in figuring out a problem. He often felt a sickening jealousy about that many times in the past. But now, he hoped it was true that Nathan was brilliant, it might hold the key to his freedom.  
Draza released his neck and let him breathe unhindered, satisfied with the show of dominance and power of his prisoner. Flynn would have scurried backwards if not for the fracture crippling him. He was weak, as well. It had been maybe two days since he had a real meal, or so it felt like. He was starving. Only a swig of vodka was all he had to suffice. He could feel the man’s looming presence over him, a tangible weight despite not touching, watching him in heavy-breathed silence.   
“… Draza,” Flynn hissed through his sore throat, wincing as he palmed at it with manacled hands. “Please… You can’t keep me here. I’m going to die in here, look at me. I barely lived from Zoran. Please, I need a doctor. I need food, water. I’m dying here, ferfuckssake.”  
There was a heady grunt in response, the heavy breathing hitching with it. A whisper of fabric, the clink of his belt, but nothing else. Draza was essentially ignoring him.   
“Draza, come on,” Flynn pleaded weakly, his dignity well out the window with the brutal treatment the day before. He was not against begging to live. “Please, I need water. Real water. I haven’t eaten in days, Draza, please.” Come on, you asshole, listen to me, I know you’re not deaf or stupid. Contrary to appearances.   
Another grunt in response, neither a decline nor approval, simply an acknowledgement. It was unnervingly infuriating to Flynn, he hated being ignored above all else. A sneer on his face, Harry had to try and watch his words as much as he wanted to curse the bastard out.   
“Draza, ple—“  
A monstrous hand gripped under his knee and crudely lifted, making Flynn cry out as the fractured ankle dragged across the floor at the adjustment. He thought he was going to be raped again but it never came, just those lusty, gentle grunts while splaying his thigh up and open to expose his captive similar to the night before. Only one hand to his intact leg. “Fuck! Draza, let me go! What the fuck are you doing?!”  
“Beg me again.”  
Oh God, now what is he asking for? “What do you mean?”  
Hot breath washed over his face threateningly, as if Draza’s glaring eyes were only inches from his blindfolded ones. “Beg me for water. For food. Beg like your life depends on it.”  
Jesus, he’s fuckin’ sick. I didn’t think people could be that sick. I guess you learn something new every day. Flynn had to swallow once, feeling queasy despite the utter emptiness of his stomach. It was starting to hurt from being so hungry. “Please… I’m so thirsty. Draza, I need water. I’m starving… Please, just a bit, I don’t want to starve in here and waste away, anything but that. Please, Draza, I don’t want to die in here.”  
The last little fearful declaration was all he needed to say apparently, Harry flinched with repulsion when he was greeted with a deep guttural moan and his balls were coated with something hot and wet, dripping down and running into his ass. He did not need to verbally ask to know what it was, the groan at the end made it perfectly and grossly clear. “You are disgusting,” Flynn grumbled wearily, hoping that at least earned him some relief from his perpetual agony. “Really, mate? Seriously? I hope you’re going to get me something for that.”  
“Fucking needy,” Draza spat, his orgasm only mildly lifting his cruelty. “I will get you water, slut.”  
The heavy boots receded from the room again, leaving him alone in his prison like before, only more disgruntled and disgusted and dirty. Needy. That’s what Nathan called me when we were necking. Fuck, I miss him so badly it hurts. Nate would never do this. Hell, he’d kill the one doing it to me.   
It took longer than he thought for Draza to return, but there was a heavy dragging sound along with his footsteps. “You still wanted water, beauty?”  
“Yes, oh God, yes, please.”  
“Drink up.”  
What? What is he talking about? The anxiety surged back to an inferno, finding himself suddenly blasted with ice-cold water in a perpetual steady high-pressure spurt, enough force to make it hurt his skin. He screamed, he could not help it with the wild terror and panic and pain, but opening his mouth nearly caused him to drown when the blast aimed for his face. The pressure was enough to snap his head back, kicking both legs regardless of the white-hot mindless agony engulfing his entire limb with the fractures grinding on nerves. Jesus, he’s going to drown me and I’m not even in the water. Fuck. Now what? He was mentally preparing himself for death when the freezing torrent of water stopped, shutting off after it gave his lower body a good soaking as well. It would probably constitute a bath for Draza’s standards. Hypothermic and shivering, Flynn curled in on himself in a puddle that rapidly drained around him, sucked into the grated opening on the floor. He could not stifle the whimpers and sniffles, quivering from head to toe.   
“Better?”  
“Fuck you!” Flynn found himself howling, feeling horribly betrayed on a simple human request. “What is the point of this?! To kill me?! Because I’m sick of you wasting my goddamn time, do it now!”  
“Oh, you will wish I did, Flynn. You will wish. Until then, we have Sullivan’s phone number. Did you wish to speak to him to say goodbye?”  
What? Why would you do that? Why would you torture me like that? “You’re lying,” Flynn huffed through chattering teeth, refusing to believe it would be that simple.  
“Why would I lie, beauty? I might be the only one that has been honest with you,” Draza chortled throatily before Flynn heard the distinct beeping of his own cell phone-keys being typed on, a number dialing.   
Oh fuck. He means it. Struggling to sit up but screaming once he grazed the bad ankle, Flynn propped himself against the wall. “AHH, FUCK! …Please, Draza, don’t.”  
“Why not talk to your friend? They may wish to say goodbye.”  
Flynn shuddered, swallowing hard as he heard the dial-tone, the phone was on speaker and Draza was striding closer for a better range. Part of him hoped this was all bullshitting but he truly doubted it, Draza was a sadist to the extreme. “Stop!”  
He could not see Draza’s expression, he could only imagine a big shit-eating grin. His phone clicked, the other end picked up. His heart jumped.   
“Flynn, just where in the goddamn did you go?!” Sullivan’s voice almost roared on the other end, the momentary anger overwhelming worry. Draza put his cell on speaker for him to hear everything. “If you’re shacked up with a girl somewhere—“  
“Sully, HELP ME!” Flynn screamed hoarsely, unable to help himself, the panic was sparked without warning but a palm slammed hard over his mouth as a gag, only shrieking mindlessly for a few horror-induced seconds. He could hear Sullivan stop ranting abruptly, too shocked to continue the tirade.   
“Now that you’re paying attention,” Draza snarled into the speaker, palm bearing down harder on Flynn’s jaw enough to mash it flat near into his throat. “You will listen.”  
“Who the fuck is this?” Victor snapped, the worry slowly seeping back into his tone. “Where’s Flynn?”  
“Keeping me company,” Draza only chuckled. “Mr. Flynn here has upset the wrong people.”  
There was a soft shout in the background on the other end, one that Flynn’s heart leapt up again with longing and hope. Nathan. Nathan, please come get me. “Sully, give me the phone! Then put it on speaker! Flynn?! Flynn, you there, buddy?” Nathan’s voice was shrill with anxiety, very loud in the concrete prison and bringing tears to Flynn’s eyes. “Answer me, pal, come on.”  
Draza seemed to permit that request for sadism’s sake, letting up off Harry’s face so he could suck in a shaky, sobbing breath and start rambling. “Nate! Oh God, I’m scared, Nate. I can’t see where he has me, they never let me see, but please come get me, pleas--“  
The fist slammed back over his mouth, bearing down hard enough to draw blood from his teeth mashing into his lips. He screamed again but it only came as a sad muffled bleating. He could hear sounds of scrambling on the other end again, the urgency no doubt changing the atmosphere with one simple phone call.   
“You son of a bitch, let him go!” Nathan howled out angrily into the phone, “Let him go, now! If you hurt him, I swear—“  
Draza laughed, cutting off the sentence. “Too late for that, boy. Three days too late. Flynn isn’t going anywhere. He won’t be able to. You should see proof of that soon enough.”  
“What are you talking about?” Sullivan barked out, fury in his tone Flynn had never heard before. “What the hell did you do?!”  
“A whole manner of things,” Draza teased, clearly enjoying the position of power. “But within a day or two’s time, you will receive a series of DVDs. They will be numbered, watch them in order. I don’t wish to spoil the ending. But if you wish to have this pitiful bitch back, then I will need $500,000 in cash in exchange.”  
“We don’t have that kind of money!” Drake raged, Flynn could picture it under his blindfold all too well, most likely almost pacing the room. “We’re not rich, we don’t have anything of value!”  
“Pray you find something,” Draza hissed into the phone. “This offer has a limited time on it. Two days. For every day that passes, add another 250,000 on the price. By the end of the week, he is mine, no deal.”  
“You sadistic son of a bitch,” Sullivan growled on the other end. “You think we handle that kind of money? You don’t have the Getty heir. We don’t have that, there’s no way we can come up with it.”  
“Please, just let him go,” Drake pleaded, taking another approach. His voice was cracking. “Please, just let him come home. We can make a deal, but just let him go first.”  
Flynn hoped Draza would take it, but he knew better. He was not as stupid as Draza thinks. “No,” came the answer he knew too well. “Money or no thief. Think I’m lying, watch the videos. One week. I’m being generous now. One week, and then Flynn is dead. You need to decide if your friend’s life is worth that much to you.”  
“WAIT!” Nathan nearly screamed, desperation surging in his tone. “Please, don’t hang up, let him talk to me.”  
Harry could not help but whimper against the hand over his mouth. He so badly wanted to. He thought his captor would not grace him with the opportunity, not even give him such a simple kindness but the hand released once more and Flynn sucked in another harsh, sobbing breath. “Oh God, Nate, Sully… I don’t want to die here,” he whimpered, he could not bring himself to shout anymore. “I’m scared, they’re going to kill me slow, I can’t even move! Please, come get me, please.”  
“It’s okay, buddy,” Nathan hushed on the other end but he could tell he was crying. His voice was cracking and getting hoarse with emotion. “We’ll figure something out, okay? Hang on. Just hang on, promise me, okay? We’re coming.”  
“Flynn?” Sully spoke solemnly, the rage drained out. It sounded too hopeless for his liking. “Flynn, you there?”  
Flynn could only keen out again in response. He was sobbing too hard to form words, too dehydrated to shed real tears.   
“Be strong. It might take time, but we’re coming.”  
Draza snapped the phone closed, before Flynn could so much as whine in acknowledgement. To his horror, the device crunched.   
“Can’t have them track us, beauty. Now sleep. You might get dinner if there are leftovers.”  
~~~````~~~  
Harry Flynn never believed his life could somehow, someway, end up here in some lonely torture chamber, being kept as a slave and starved and dehydrated and without a single friend for miles. He found in the countless hours in solitude when Lieutenant Draza left him alone in the prison cell that the uncertainty of it was the most horrible thing about it.   
Flynn honestly thought he had his best chance of a violent death already surpass him with the slow and painful recovery after Shambhala. He honestly thought he was safe, like Nathan Drake promised him so many countless times since he was dragged back from the burning ancient city. It was hard not to feel a bit betrayed by that promise, despite it being his choice to disappear on his own for an hour at the most. He spent the first few nights after Draza’s visits begging the camera, Nathan mostly on his list of few friends and loved ones he rambled on, to come rescue him. It was pathetic, pitiful and he knew it, but he was growing more and more desperate with each day. He even tried taking his blindfold off when he was alone but Draza always seemed to know when he took it off. He was not kind as he was the first time as promised, slapping the ever-loving hell out of his face until he was sobbing and pleading to be left alone before it was roughly tied back over his eyes. He stopped trying then, used to the daily blindness before long. But he had to try and keep count of days and stay alive. He tried to splint his broken ankle himself with scraps of his boxers but all he managed to do was hurt himself and he had no idea if it was straight or not. Draza made it a nightly routine of forcefully injecting him with morphine. At first it was against his will as he kicked and screamed and pleaded for it to stop. Before the end of the week, Flynn actually began to come more quietly to the offer. Anything to make the endless agony of his ankle to stop, to make his pain go away, make him doze off or relax despite being violently raped nearly nightly, or at least sexually humiliated like his captor masturbating overtop him while he begged and pleaded for drugs or mercy. It was not long before he knew he was already addicted. He needed it. Without them, he felt sick to his stomach and cold, the headaches and sniffles and stomach cramps were torture.   
The endless captivity was maddening without a calendar or clock. At first he tried to carve lines in the walls to mark off the days, or more accurately, the times Draza greeted him with ‘good morning, pretty man’ or ‘good day, beauty’. He only managed to peel back and break several fingernails before he gave up on that method. He had nothing to use as a tool. As a last resort, he used his own body as a tally, biting hard on his arm to raise a bloody welt closest to the wrist. He repeated the process down the whole arm that he could reach with his teeth, turning the skinny limb that just seemed to shrink to add more on both sides. When the wounds were healing, he would reopen them persistently despite the agony, determined in his task other than the uselessness of it. He was halfway through the opposite arm when Draza finally asked him. By then, he knew it was nearly fifteen separate wounds mostly littering his left. Fifteen miserable fuckin’ days. He was only given food maybe three times that he could remember.   
A massive hand encircled his whole upper bicep, it was not difficult considering how much weight he dropped. It tugged the weak, quivering limb out for inspection, an audible tutting making him instinctively flinch into the floor and press his face into it submissively. “My lovely foreign beauty,” Draza almost crooned, as soft as the gruff voice can muster. “Why do you damage yourself? Is it hunger? I can increase rations, for a price.” Flynn shuddered again at that potential promise. Of all the people that made him promises that year, Chloe in her promise to stay with him as his life partner, Nathan in his promise to protect him, Zoran in his promise to end his life, only Draza was the one that seemed to keep his promises.  
As hungry as he was, the price was almost too steep. He would rather die. Last time he begged for more water, Draza offered him a whole canteen. For a price. He was so desperate, he agreed without truly knowing the terms. He nearly suffocated from Draza fucking his throat, unable to breathe before his whole face was painted in cum. He was given the canteen, then. He dreaded it was piss or vodka or worse, but he was truly and deeply surprised to find it full to the brim with ice-cold fresh water. He conserved it as long as he could, but it made the shame worse knowing he was becoming what he swore he would never be, somebody like his mother.  
Flynn rarely spoke much in response to Draza unless he truly had to. As a question, he was being trained to not ignore them but answer promptly or be faced with punishment. And punishments were plenty and worse than the daily treatment. The first time he gave Draza attitude during the real introduction of his stay, he was viciously raped with a vodka bottle while the voyeuristic troops outside the door of his prison jeered and roared in cruel approval. The second time earned him a powerful stomp on his already fractured ankle, actually making him vomit and pass out spontaneously before waking hours later in royal excruciating agony.   
Finding his voice was hard, he could barely whisper lately with the dehydration, wincing from the strain. But Flynn spoke blindly in the direction of the voice, his bicep still being possessively clutched. “I… I don’t know how long it’s been… I … I count this way…”  
There was a pause as Draza was counting the wounds, much slower than Flynn took comfort in. Stupid shit-pile. Can’t count to fifteen. Then a laugh. A deep, hard laugh. It chilled him to the bone by hearing it. “Been longer than that, beauty. Nearly three weeks.”  
What?! Three weeks?! The horror struck Flynn deeply, more than the anxiety from his withdrawals and the worry of what was taking so long for rescue. He thought he would have been rescued by now. The week deadline long passed. Yet he was still here. Oh God. I’m going to die in here. I’m going to die. He’s going to kill me. If he was not so dehydrated, he might have started weeping. But he had no energy to even sob. “Th-they… They’re coming… you see… they’re coming for me… they promised…” He still had hope. Hope in Drake’s goodness and stubborn drive.  
The mean grasp released his arm, but the nature seemed to change entirely. Fingers laced into his hair, stroking through the oily, tangled locks almost kindly. “My poor, abandoned beauty,” the growl came, as sympathetic as it could possibly sound. “No one is coming for you. I had men monitor your ally’s plane, they left the day after we called them. There was reports they headed back to America. They left you, beauty. That promise they never intended to keep for you. You never were one of them.”  
Flynn weakly shook his head as he lay on his side, too weak to move or resist. He never thought it was possible to be this drained and lethargic. Keeping his eyes open was a struggle, even though the blindfold. Lifting his arm at all was like lifting a lead-filled weight. He physically could not sit up if he tried. He wanted to cry. The betrayal came so strongly, his manacled hands slid across the concrete to clutch at his aching chest where the hurt seemed to radiate from. No, not Nathan. Not Drake. Drake would never leave me behind like that, he fuckin’ promised! He promised this would never happen, and it did and I forgave him for that. But he left me? The day after? That’s not fair, Drake. That’s not fair. He better be lying. You better be on your way. “N-no… H-he wouldn’t…”  
“Oh, but they did. The pilot Victor Sullivan? Registered on flight patterns to fly out with an additional occupant. They left, my beauty. They finished with you.” The fingers continued to toy with a stray dirty lock of hair.   
Harry Flynn had to admit, those words hurt more than his broken ankle that he was sure was growing infected. Could broke bones get infected? Flynn had no idea, medical care or first aid he left to the professionals or medics. But it was so insignificant now. Nathan and Victor abandoning him despite their welcoming, accepting and gentle nature towards him was brutally cruel. It hurt more than Zoran Lazarevic’s daily torment, it was easier to accept abuse from a stranger or an enemy than it is a friend. He begun to sob then. A hoarse, hiccupping, tragic sound that tore his throat, but no tears were able to join them, his body was too dehydrated to spare the moisture.   
No. Not Drake. Drake would never leave me here. Not when he knows I’m here. You’re lying. You have to be lying. Drake… I never thought he would steal Chloe. But he did, I heard it myself. I never thought he’d leave me to suffer with Zoran. He did, he never truly cared to look close with the two women nearby. He just betrayed me again. When things get too complicated, he leaves me. Nathan, why? I trusted you. I loved you, forfuckssake. I told you everything about me, you and Sullivan both. Why would you do that? Why would you make me think you cared about me and leave me? How could both of you do that? I thought you were good people.   
“Shhh,” came a stern growl, but the tones of pity were alien to Flynn’s ears. He did not believe Draza was even capable of those feelings, not when he endured three weeks of hell. The petting continued, affectionately trailing behind his ears to tuck stray locks of auburn hair. “Your place is here now. You are not well, my beauty. The medic will come.”  
Flynn just wanted to die then, he wished his heart would fail on him prematurely and his suffering would end. He just pressed his face into the dirty floor, wrenching those awful wounded sobs out of his sore, aching body. “J-just… kill me…. D-do it… I can’t… I can’t do this….K-kill me….” His hope died in his mind, the prospect of death was much more appealing. I’m going to die in here anyway. Make it soon. Snap my neck, get it over with. Stop toying with me.   
“Hush,” came the growl again, Flynn was not sure if his own sobs and hiccups were drowning out the voice but he could have sworn it went softer. The petting resumed, trailing to end at his neck before returning to his head. “Your food rations are going to increase, water canteen once every three days. You will not die. Not yet.”  
The next day, Draza returned with the medic as promised, but the most surprising moment was during his rather painful check-up and rehydration through an IV, Draza curled Flynn in his lap. He had no strength to move if he wanted to, but the three long weeks in constant humiliation and torture and seclusion was a horrible heavy weight and the very single form of affection was something he so desperately wanted. The medic left shortly after, not bothering to treat or brace his broken leg but not without conversing with Draza in their Native tongue. But Draza never budged, only simply getting comfortable at his spot against the wall, slowly manipulating Harry’s emaciated, traumatized body to sit chest flush to his captor’s, resting his bony, dirty chin on his brawny, large shoulder. Flynn had no strength to support himself upright, a large palm pressed between his shoulder-blades to prevent him from slipping backwards. The blindfold had become comforting instead of terrifying, it was better he did not see what might happen or what was happening.   
“W-why…. Why are you…. D-doing this?” Flynn panted weakly, the effort to talk was becoming more difficult each passing week. He feared his condition would only deteriorate further, despite the added allowances he was going to be given. The fact he was getting weaker all the time proved it. He doubted he would be able to move at all before long, a skeleton with skin stretched across it.   
“To take over where Zoran left off, at first. You were right about Shambhala being gone. The original intention was to hunt down the ones that caused it and make them pay. But you proved to be all I ever truly wanted for vengeance. Your insolence and arrogance needed to be beaten and fucked from you, more than Zoran ever could manage. And the finished prize is a thing of beauty,” Draza droned gently, the hand pressed on his back easing up to hold the nape of his neck to support him, the other fingers trailing his pronounced, bony spine. “You needed to be broken. Maybe, mould you into my personal lieutenant with time.”  
Harry Flynn could hardly believe what he heard, he thought it was perhaps a hallucination. He was just so weak, so tired. But a pathetic, tiny sliver of himself was rejoicing, pleased that he could finally gather a bit of affection from someone that truly had plans for him that might benefit him instead of result in abandonment. He wanted to clutch onto Draza’s shirt and never let go, to keep himself anchored in place where he was warm and comfortable and not alone. The solitude was so frightening in the hours he spent in his prison, he could hear the jeers and cruel laughter of the other underlings through the door when Draza was indisposed, banging on the wood all hours to keep him awake. Sometimes they fussed with the lock on the other side, like they were trying to pick it. He was terrified of what would happen if they ever got in. Flynn knew survival lay in Draza, staying on his good side and staying loyal meant he would not be thrown to the proverbial dogs and be attacked by a horny, sadistic mob. He was exhausted, too much to grip at the combat vest biting into his skin. All he could do is beg, his words were the only thing he had.  
“P-please…” Flynn wheezed softly, shivering gently in the massive embrace. “D-…. D-don’t leave me…” Harry spent so many years alone. He thought he found an odd little family with Drake and Sullivan but their quick dismissal of him after being kidnapped stung more each minute he dwelled on it. The betrayal he was used to from his mother, he never expected much from her. But the good guy Drake? To be abandoned by him meant a form of exile he could not stand. He could not lose anyone else, even if it meant his abuser that took pity on him. Draza would protect him from the eager, taunting men outside. Please, don’t go. Stay here with me. You can do whatever you want, anything, I don’t care, just stay here. They’re trying to pick the padlock outside, I can hear them at night when you leave. I’m so scared. I don’t want them to come in.  
There was another hushing noise, rocked back and forth gently as if he needed to be cradled and soothed. The movement hurt Flynn more than anything, but he found himself surrendering to it despite keening with each sway. He just wanted the man to take pity on him, give him his nightly dose of drugs, maybe fuck the feeling out of him and stay for hours. If he had to beg, he would. Flynn’s drive to keep what little comfort he had was all consuming.   
“Relax, beauty,” Draza murmured into his shoulder. There was a sound of a belt, one of Draza’s hands hooked under his skinny rear and actually lifted him easily. Flynn did not need to ask why, he knew this well-rehearsed dance by now. “Just relax. So light, so small. You are wasting away, beauty. Your rations need to increase.” Mustering a tiny glimmer of energy through the anxiety and faint excitement, an emotion he loathed to recognize, both his skeletal bitten arms slung around Draza’s thickly muscled neck. Flynn rarely got lube anymore, instead his sore, raw anus seemed to be growing used to the constant abuse. A blunted tip clumsily skimmed over the spot before popping in as he dropped Flynn’s weight down onto it.   
“O-ow, fuck….” Flynn growled weakly, but he was determined not to lose what little privileges he hoped to gain by losing his composure. It was easy to deflect reality and disappear into his head by now, a learned process by trial and error but he had a lot of practice lately. As much as it hurt to think about, he liked to think about that night in Alaska. Not the vivid recollection in town-square that led to a public embarrassment but the night after. Snuggled into Nathan Drake’s side on the fold-out couch, relishing his body heat and his gentle breathing, so unlike the harsh panting in his ears now as his pelvis was lifted and dropped repeatedly on top of Draza’s lap. That was the first real drink I had in a long time. Hearing them both laugh that night. I’d give anything to hear it again. I’d give my ruined leg. He kissed me twice that night. Nate, I miss you. Why did you leave me here? What did I do wrong? Did I disappoint him on the plane when we were necking? That’s maybe why. He knows I’m damaged.   
Harry Flynn reflected on the time him and Nathan were venturing through South Africa. The heat was insufferable, and they lost their cool on each other during the stress of the moment of a fire-fight. It led to some rather vicious name-calling and tempered fist-fight afterwards. The look of hurt and anger Nathan had in those blue-green eyes made him think that was the start of their troubles, the spark to the reason of Nathan’s betrayal with Chloe. And the saddest part? Flynn had no idea what the fuck he said to make him so mad. He completely forgot what the exchange entailed, the names bellowed and the argument before that. All he knew that was the last time he saw Nate until he stumbled into him at South America at that beach bar with the intention to dropping the job in his lap. He wanted to make things right then. Flynn wanted his friend back. He figured the opportunity would be too good for his friend to pass up, he did not want him to miss out. And then he heard Chloe and Nate’s voices whispering hushed plans beyond his hotel room wall. What did I do to deserve that, Nate? What did I do to deserve Zoran? Why did you leave me here? I thought I was good to you. I thought you liked me. Because I loved you, so fuckin’ much.   
Draza’s grip tightened on his hips and planted him down tight into his crotch, burying his raging erection to the root in his captive. Flynn shuddered once, as the hot gush of cum flooded his bowels again like so many times this near-month. Approvingly, Draza growled in his ear and patted his sweaty ass just under the scarred initials. “Beautiful, as always,” he murmured happily. “I should go, my lovely, the troops need my guidance.”   
A surge of terror and anxiety ramped up in the numbness of it all, clamping his arms tighter around Draza’s neck. Flynn had no strength if Draza decided otherwise, but he was hoping his desperation was being communicated plainly enough. “N-no…. S-stay, please… I’m scared….”  
“Why is that?”  
Flynn bit his lip, wondering if he should dare discuss his fears out loud when he could be punished. He was deeply afraid of what the next one was. But his fear of the gang beyond the door was worse. “They… they try to get in….” Flynn panted softly, exhausted already from the strain of holding onto Draza’s neck. “P-please… Stay.”  
“Only I have the key, beauty,” Draza merely dismissed, prying his weak, frail arms apart and off easily before tossing him onto the cold concrete floor to stand. “They will not. If so, they will be dealt with.”  
“W-wait…” Flynn gasped out at last when he was finally able to speak out loud, the mild unceremonious shove to the ground was enough to jar his ribs and make him heave for air before he could struggle a word out. But the door already opened and slammed again, the lock snapping on the other side. The loneliness was the worst part of it all. But Harry could not help but feel disposable.   
~~~````~~~  
Harry acquired maybe fourteen new bites when the door rattled open well before Draza’s scheduled time, Harry’s matted, oily head lifting up off the floor to peer blindly in the direction of it. The increase in rations hardly helped his energy level, it just meant he was able to sleep less when he simply passed out from the low blood sugar before. A month in captivity made him come to expect the daily visits and abuse, but he did not expect it so soon.   
“Draza?” Flynn rasped out, the blindfold still left in place as it was previously tied by Draza’s own hand.   
“How many at a time for now?” one eager voice growled, one he did not recognize at all and immediately inspired awful fear.   
“Three for now,” another whispered, this one nervous. “Hurry, we get caught, we’re dead.”  
No. No, no, no. Oh God, please, no. Flynn had no voice to speak of to scream, but he was damn sure going to try. He sucked in a breath hard, panic making him scramble backwards into the wall clumsily. “DRAZA!” He howled hoarsely, broken ankle dragging and making him nearly vomit from the agony. “Dra—“  
A fist slammed into his jaw and Flynn blacked out instantaneously, the force of the collision was comparable to one of Zoran’s back-hands. He did not remember much else but when he came to awareness, someone’s cock was ramming into his throat as he was trapped on his back, both wrists pinned to the floor by the manacled chain. He spluttered and gagged, thinking perhaps Draza came back but the thrusting in and out of his sore ass said he had company. The voices grunting were unfamiliar. Fuck you, asshole. Flynn’s teeth snapped down hard, the man pinning his skull screaming out before his head was violently slammed into the cement floor. He tasted blood, but he was not sure it was his own. When he was more awake again from the brutal blow, shaking his head weakly to stir himself from the daze, he found there was a hand clamped over his mouth instead this time. Someone else was holding his legs open, each ankle gripped hard and pried apart wide enough to make him howl in agony.   
“Watch it! Think you broke his jaw.”  
“You watch it,” snapped back an irritable voice. “You’re fucking up his leg.”  
Oh God. Please kill me. Take what you want just kill me. I don’t care anymore. Just finish it. I don’t care if hell is only waiting for me, I’m done with this place.   
A cold object pressed into his ass then, making him jolt from the unfamiliarity and writhe as it shoved inside his body brutally and stretched him in a way he thought impossible. He bellowed and shrieked into the palm over his face, his nose then pinched shut until he nearly blacked out from the suffocation. When he went limp and compliant, the vicious object rammed deeper yet. The hell is that? What are they going to kill me with? It feels big. I think I might die.   
Some chortling overhead told him he had some voyeur observers, the object beginning to thrust earnestly. A baton. A night stick. Fuck, where the hell did they get one? They keep pushing, they might puncture something. I don’t want to die that way. Please, God. I know I’m a piece of shit but I just want to live.  
“Not too deep,” one observer snapped, a smack of flesh on a skull and a yelp. “Don’t impale him, this is the favourite.”  
Favourite? Oh fuck. Oh fuck no. Please let them be lying. Let them be talking about something else. Delirious with fear and adrenaline, Harry Flynn could only imagine he was not the only prisoner housed in this secret fucked-up chamber in some underground facility. The utter lack of windows gave him the impression he must he underground, the cold of the room adding to his suspicions. What if they have the others? What if they have Drake? Chloe? Sullivan? Jesus, let it not be true.   
A shout in the hall, all the additional occupiers of his cell including the ones pinning him jumping and releasing him immediately in response, but just as they meant to leave, hurried boots across the floor all around his curled, abused body, a gunshot made them all freeze in place. A soft meaty thud, a panicked yelp. Serbian growls, a deep familiar voice his heart leapt up for. The soldiers filed out, undoubtedly nervous… before a series of gunshots rang out. Flynn shivered each time, hands clasping for his ears and covering them both. He kept them clamped in place for a long time, the night-stick still lodged deep inside his body but too afraid to move. It was not until a leather-clad palm touched his forehead, smoothing sticky, filthy strands backwards.   
“My beauty, look what they done to you,” Draza growled angrily, but Flynn was relieved to hear the tone this time. And so damn happy. It meant he was safe. But the horror of the earlier conversation hung over him. Part of him felt a bit betrayed again for Draza having others to play with as well. “Don’t worry. They’re dead. All of them.”  
“D-Draza…” Flynn wheezed weakly, curling himself closer into the touch. “Th-they…. All did it…” If I have to use you to make sure I’m safe, so be it. If I have to turn you against all your men, so be it. If I have to kill you myself to escape this hell, I will fuckin’ do it. But right now, I need you to execute all your men. All of them. Get rid of them so I might get through this.  
“Traitors,” Draza snarled viciously, his rage stoking as Flynn so joyously predicted. He might claim to be clever, but Draza was dull and dim like an unthawed Neanderthal. Flynn might have been called stupid and belittled, but he knew how to manipulate to get what he wanted. “Traitors, all of them. Stay here, beauty. This will be handled quickly.”  
~~~````~~~  
As predicted, there was another volley of gunshots and screams, disturbing on its own but the silence afterwards was ominous and much worse. Part of him wondered what would happen if Draza was possibly killed in a revolt or mutiny, what he might have to worry about next. His death would be so much worse. But his fears were unfounded when Draza eventually returned and held him, reeking of blood.   
Flynn’s position never changed other than the silence of the compound now after the massacre, he thought maybe he was being held in the cell out of sheer possessiveness. But the chain’s length never changed, the ration portions stopped increasing and the rapes only more frequent now that Draza had more spare time. Not that Flynn minded all that much. Terrible company was better than none.   
It was the day after so many more days that Draza was rutting him into the floor yet again after being freshly injected with a double-helping of morphine that made the high almost comparable to the first. Almost. He felt good enough to lay still and compliant under Draza’s ramming, aggressive hips, eyes softly closed under the blindfold as he dozed. His broken, infected leg was sprawled on the floor beneath him, the morphine took the worst of the agony away but it still hurt enough for his skin to feel clammy under Draza’s dominating hands. He could not see how bad it looked, he was too afraid. But he knew it was bad. It was starting to smell and the pain was only getting worse when he was sober. His intact skeletal leg was on Draza’s shoulder as he was partially curled on his side, semi-delirious with the fever that came on and off. Flynn’s arms were scabbing and healing. He long stopped marking off the days. Rescue was not coming. He accepted that the day after he was told his rescue was non-existent.   
One of Draza’s massive hands encircled his whole thigh now, it had shrunk a lot in his captivity. It kept him lewdly splayed open for the brutal fucking, the other supporting his head that he was simply too weak to lift off the floor anymore. He was dying. He knew it. It was only a matter of time. Flynn overestimated his stupid plan to have Draza execute all his men. He even killed the medic in the rampage. They were all right about me. I’m stupid. Nowhere near as clever as I believed I was. Here I wanted them all dead. I didn’t think he would be killing me in the process of doing that. The infection is bad… I’m dead. He’s too stupid to treat me. He’s going to keep rutting until I die in here, most likely alone. I’m so scared.   
Draza hilted fully in him once more and finished with a guttural snarl in his ear, gushing into his bowels. He never could get used to that, the stinging after that went into the open wounds from the brutal thrusting and lack of lubricant and patience. Numbed and drugged or not, it made him cringe and whimper. The sound elicit a response he began to crave but loathed that he did. Draza remained fully impaled inside, leaning forward to inspect his face closely, booze-tainted breath washing over him. He felt so oddly violated by Draza in ways that Zoran could never touch mentally. The man thrived on his helplessness, deprived him of every liberty including his senses. He was not allowed to see. He could not eat unless provided, he was virtually trapped within three measly feet. And as he deteriorated and shriveled, Draza’s huge form only seemed more immoveable, more domineering, and more impossible to beat. The way he was manipulated physically to the man’s pleasure and posed and postured was shameful, humiliating. It made him hate himself.   
“You’re sick, beauty,” Draza growled softly, perhaps finally taking notice of his fever. The hand supporting his neck gently lay his head back onto the floor, padding along his forehead. It felt nice. Flynn only breathed lightly and softly, taking in the cool touch on his heated skin. “How long have you been sick?”  
Flynn had no strength to move, he could not even shift the blindfold to look around his bleak prison but the fear prevented the urge from surfacing. “…. I don’t remember…” he whispered, unable to raise his voice. His breathing rattled in his chest and lungs, a breeze of a hiss that added stress on his body. “…. H-how… how long? … How long have I… been here?” I don’t think I can last another two days. I don’t think I have one. This is it, Flynn. This cell is going to be your tomb.   
The hand left his face, Flynn dozed for a moment before he realized the manacles were unlocked and tossed aside. It was the first time he remembered them off since the van. “Two months. Stay,” Draza growled down at him, but Flynn honestly could not do anything else but. “Sleep. I will seek a doctor.”  
This is it. I’m going to die in here. He’s never coming back. He did not want to be here to watch me die, he’s just going to wait until I do. I been here two months? How is that possible? How has no one heard me? Where is help?  
Nodding out was irresistible, the drugs, the exhaustion, the fever, it was all crippling his stamina. He closed his eyes. The amount of time that passed, he never knew, but distant gunfire brought him into his dulled awareness. It was muffled, like a series of pops that he did not immediately recognize. The gunfire got closer. So much closer. Flynn could not move his arms, if he could, he would cover his ears to block out the sound. Oh my God. What is that? What is happening? He left for a doctor and never came back. Oh my God, is this another mutiny? Did he hire another army? Oh God, they’re at the door. Go away, go away, go away.   
The chains on the other side were being disturbed, links clanking together as the padlock was inspected. Another deafening pop, this one making Harry Flynn instinctively tuck himself into a tighter fetal position, hands actually finding a hint of adrenaline to finally shelter his ears. It hardly helped. But he was so scared. Who would shoot the chain if Draza had a key? The memory of the previous mob that managed to pick the lock was still very fresh, the consequences still present. The medic was still dead. His body still hurt, his jaw still fractured, he could feel it shift from the punch he gotten in the gang-rape.   
The door swung open, shedding light into the room, his musty yellow lightbulb burned out weeks ago and leaving him in perpetual blackness. The blindfold blocked out the light and the view… but he could see the shape there was not Draza through the oil-crusted cloth. Much too small, too short. “N-no…” Flynn wheezed softly, his heart dropping in terror and anxiety. Draza was gone. There was no accented greeting, just a silence as the newest captors opened the door and took in the sight. “N-no… Go away… Draza, please… Draza, come… get me… they’re back… Please, Draza… I’m scared….”  
“Jesus H Christ,” a voice growled out in disgust and shock, one he never thought he would hear again. Victor Sullivan. Flynn was sure he was hallucinating. He once had a dream Sully and Nate came to rescue him. Waking up was a brutal and upsetting shock, a kick in the nuts with reality.  
“F-Flynn?” another one gasped breathlessly, floored from the vision before him. That voice brought an instinctual tug of longing but a deep sense of betrayal and hurt. There were rushed footsteps, almost crowding him, enough to make him flinch and cover his ears again. “Flynn? Oh God, Harry… Oh my God. I think I’m gonna be sick.”  
“Go away…” Flynn hissed, trying to vice-clamp his skeletal hands over his ears. The voices were too much right now. It made him feel sick from the past positive associations and the heartbreak of the recent abandonment. The hallucinations were often overwhelming. He kept hearing his dead mother whisper at night when he was trying to sleep, hissing awful taunts and insults in his ears. “Go away… leave me alone… Draza, help me… S-scared…”  
Nathan’s voice again, very small and distraught despite the close proximity. “What do we do, Sully? Oh… Oh God. His leg. It’s so much worse. What did those animals do to him? Fuck… oh fuck….”  
“Stop,” Sully scolded once, it was all Nathan usually needed to calm down and focus. But Harry could feel his hot breath on him, near hyper-ventilating. “Nate, be strong. Go find a blanket, I’ll stay with him. We need to get him out of here, to a hospital. Now.”  
They’re not really here. They can’t be here. It’s been two months. They had one week. Draza wanted to keep me. This is a trick. He’s testing me. He wants me to behave. I can’t let them take me. He wants them to but I won’t let them. No. I’m going to pass this test, Draza, I’m going to make you proud.   
Footsteps up and gone, another set, much softer and more restrained, came close and lingered around him. “Jesus, kid,” Sully groaned under his breath, his own voice suddenly thick and troubled with emotion. “What happened to you? You’ll be okay now, we got you. You’ll be safe from now on.”  
“Y-you’re…. you’re not real….” Flynn panted gently, the hot flashes of his fever making him sweat before it chilled him and made him shake. “…. This… this is a test…. Go away…. I’m staying….”  
A stranger’s fingertip hooked around the blindfold before he could react and resist, flicking it down off his eyes. Flynn instinctively covered them, yowling in pain despite the morphine. It was the first light he was exposed to since his imprisonment, it felt like electric-rigged ice-picks poking into both eyes into his brain. His eyes were watering profusely, but only a few scant tears are what his body allowed itself to give. He was not sure how long it took for him to finally see and focus, it felt like forever, much too long for his liking. But when they cleared, his glassy, blank eyes fixed on the one crouched in front of him.   
Victor Sullivan was kneeling on the filthy concrete, the grit and grime only directly within Flynn’s reach in his two month isolation. There was a leather jacket on over his gaudy red shirt, slacks he often preferred. Flynn was sure he was hallucinating, he saw the single tear track running down the older man’s creased face and disappearing into the thick moustache. He never seen Sullivan shed a single tear in his life. Hastily, the American swiped it away with a sleeve, actually reaching out hesitantly to offer his hand to Harry. “Sorry it took so long, kid… We tried, we really tried. They hid their tracks really well, but we’re here now.”  
“N-no…. no…. no, you’re… not here…” Flynn hissed persistently. It had been too long since he opened his eyes and was able to see unhindered. Right now, in his weakened state, he just knew his eyes were playing tricks. The fever was too strong. The hallucinations were getting worse. “D-Draza… where…. D-Draza, I need…. Him….” I won’t let them take me. If I stay loyal to him, he’ll be happy and make the pain stop. He’s getting a doctor. He promised. He keeps his promises. He’s the only one that does.   
A near-sprinting shape skid into the room, startling Harry badly enough to press his face into the concrete with a submissive whine he learned was a positively received signal from his captors. No. No, no, no. Why is there more than one? Please go away. Please. Draza, where are you? He jammed his eyelids shut as tight as he could, refusing to look. He would behave if the blindfold was gone, he would keep his eyes closed. Even when a blanket slowly draped over his naked, filthy, emaciated body, Flynn refused to budge from the curled fetal position lacking his ruined leg.   
“Sully, I… I don’t want to move him,” Nathan whined out beside him again. “It looks so bad. I don’t want to hurt him.”  
“I got him,” Sullivan murmured out reassuringly, although he sounded reluctant at best. “Look around the place before we head out, grab anything you see belongs to him and we’re going.”  
Harry Flynn actually found himself desperately yanking the blindfold back over his eyes before he was approached at all, before blindly snatching out for the shackles that once imprisoned him. He had no maneuverability to try and clamp it over a wrist again but he simply clutched onto it as a life-line. No. No, they’re not moving me. I’m staying. I just want to die here. Quiet and alone if I have to, I won’t be taken by another army. I won’t. I’d rather die than have that happen again. “D-Draza…. H-help…”  
The silence was chilling. It made Harry made scared. He was afraid of moving under the blanket, frozen in place. Someone’s hands were wrapping the soft wool around him, tucking it under his chest and bony limbs. Strong arms hooked underneath his smaller frame and went to lift immediately, but his grip on the shackles never faltered, the chain taut in his hands. The anxiety was heightening. Flynn was wanting to scream, but he could not get the sound out. He begun to sob instead, the terror becoming overwhelming. He was afraid what would happen if he got dragged into the barracks. He kept seeing soldiers. “N-no…. no, go away…. Let me go….”  
“Come on, kid, let go,” Sully’s voice muttered above him, deep in his captor’s chest. Flynn was shaking his head now, he did not want to hear his friend’s voice coming from another attacker. His fever was frying his brain, he knew it. “You’re breaking my heart here. You’re safe now. Nate, don’t touch him. He’s burning up. It’s just the fever, we need to get him help now.”  
Yes. Help. The fever. Flynn’s strength waned and he released the chain in his death-grip, surrendering to the remote possibility he was not being sent to his painful and humiliating death. The morphine had not completely left his system, it was easier to sink down into a daze and fog. He did not remember anything else. He just felt tired and wanted to sleep off the latest trauma and ordeal.  
~~~````~~~  
It was like Shambhala all over again. Deja fuckin’ vu. He hardly had a solid full memory, only flickers like badly sewn together video clips in a reel that was roughly in chronological order with huge gaps in between. But Harry Flynn knew he was no longer in his little concrete closet anymore that was certain. The feelings he had on the matter were mixed. At the start of his imprisonment, he wanted nothing more than to get out, to escape either on his own volition or have a rescue staged. But after the brutal attack by Draza’s men, Flynn became deeply aware the world outside his prison was unpredictable and needlessly harsh. He hoped it would not be one of those times.  
The first real consciousness he ended up snatching back was in a moving vehicle, he became aware of the rumbling of the engine, the subtle turn of gravity with the road. Flynn immediately thought of the van again with Draza. It originally would have filled him with fear, but now he felt oddly comforted. Maybe it meant he was going to get help. Maybe it meant he was going to be executed in some dirt road somewhere and dumped into a shallow grave. Either way, it was ending. That was a relief of itself. Someone was holding him. He was completely enveloped in a blanket but he could feel his disabled leg kept outside the folds and left alone on the seat. A slight squirm, an effort to lift his head, the blindfold was off again and he refused to open his eyes.   
“Hey, he’s waking up!” a voice almost shouted in his ear, making him shy away from the ringing in his eardrums. “Shit, sorry, buddy. Chloe, I’m serious, you better step on it.”  
Chloe? Chloe’s here? She would be driving, she’s always the driver. Who else is here? Flynn refused to open his eyes. They still hurt so badly. The morphine was beginning to wane and his body was aching, the leg worst of all.   
“It’s okay, Flynn,” the familiar voice hushed again, much quieter this time to assure him privately. It was hoarse and thick with emotion, struggling through a potential sob. Nathan. “You’ll be okay… We’re going to get you help. I’m so sorry we were late. Oh God, I should have never let you out of my sight.”  
Harry listened quietly. If he engaged in the hallucinations directly, they often ended abruptly and left him sorely missing them. This time he would stay quiet, passive and compliant. This was one hallucination he did not want to stir from. Not yet. He wanted to see how it might play out. Who knows? It might even be real.  
“Watch the bump,” Sully’s voice growled out warningly, there was a tension housed in his tone. “Watch it. Chloe, easy!”  
“Jesus, Victor, there’s too fuckin’ many!” Chloe snapped back, her temper shorter than usual. “Put on your bloody bifocals! It’s a dirt road, forgodsake.”  
That was the last thing he managed to hear before that little memory snapped off abruptly, the vehicle hitting a pothole the size of fuckin’ Texas that lurched Harry almost airborne a split-second out of Nathan’s lap. His broken, infected leg struck the seat first, little stimulation was chronically magnified to feel like his limb was stuck in a bear-trap composed of knives. His spine arched and he shrieked, the sound tearing at his sore vocal cords and falling limp once he blacked out. He could not be more thankful for a blackout in his life.   
He heard voices first, muffled, distant, like body was submerged in the calm depths of the ocean and he was rising to meet them, slowly becoming intelligible. Someone was supporting his head in one hand, cupping his face, fingers tapping his sunken cheek to get his attention. Flynn grunted softly in response, just to get it to stop hurting him. His fractured jaw still ached horridly, it never stopped but it never did drown out the agony of his leg. That would have been nice.   
“Flynn? Hey, buddy? We’re here,” Nathan urged softly, his demeanor calmed considerably last he was conscious. “Hang on, just a little bit longer, you’re doing so great, buddy.”  
“Nate, bring him in,” Chloe snapped, not amused with any hesitation. “What, is your arse glued to the seat? Hurry up!”  
“I’m not moving, Chloe,” Nate almost growled, his voice back to the defensive hoarseness. “Sully said he’s getting the staff with a stretcher, I can’t move him with his leg like that.”  
“Not to be bloody-fuckin’-blunt, mate, but I’m sure carrying him into a hospital is not the worst thing that leg has been through,” Chloe nearly hissed, voice dangerously lowered. “If you don’t get him in there soon, I will carry him myself, he doesn’t look that hard to lift.”  
Harry could not truly believe what he was hearing, it was easier to stay in the depths of the blanket than to greet this sort of strange alternate reality. His eyes were much too sensitive to try and see it for himself. After two months in virtual darkness, it was too much too soon with the daylight streaming in. Why won’t they stop bickering? We’re here. Another minute isn’t the end of the world.   
“Chloe, you do that, we’re going to have serious problems,” Nathan growled possessively, a tone he was not familiar Nate ever having. Jesus. Maybe I am delirious. Why would Nathan be snarling over me like a starving dog and a bone? “Never mind that, here they come.”  
There was a fleet of running footsteps, a rattling of a metal frame that signalled the stretcher over the asphalt. Nathan tensed underneath him and went to move, but a half-turn in the vehicle’s seat slid his damaged, infected leg down to off the neighbouring seat onto the floor. The jarring impact was enough to elicit another weak, cracking scream, but this time the blackout was not as powerful as the first, he sunk down gradually like he first rose to consciousness.   
“Flynn, oh God, I’m so sorry,” Nathan whimpered over his howls, hunching down protectively around his body as he went to stand. “Jesus, I didn’t mean to, I’m so sorry, buddy, I didn’t want to move at all because of this.”   
That last little whine was the last he could make out, the rest of the voices already a murmuring drone in the background that the volume slowly reduced until he was out again. Flynn was actually thankful for it. The pain was simply too much to handle, his buzz was gone and he needed another fix badly. He just hoped the hospital would hit him up with some soon.  
That must have what happened, sedated out of his mind to tolerate the brutal agony of his infection. Harry Flynn did not remember anything else beyond that other than waking up in a hospital. Despite the new supplied blindfold, he could tell that much from the scent alone. It was sharp with disinfectant and medications, sterile enough to be alien.   
“Fffffuck…” Flynn groaned out, his body feeling so heavy and stiff like he was encased in cotton. He flicked a tongue around the inside of his mouth, so dry yet again, wincing as he tried to move one of his arms. They’re not shackled, I don’t think. Not metal, anyway. I can’t move. What the hell did they do to me?  
Someone stirred at his side, a sharp inhale of waking perhaps, but who that was he did not know. Flynn was afraid to ask. He was not sure if his voice could cooperate anyway. He just limply rolled his head into the direction, to acknowledge their presence. Who are you? Draza? If you’re Draza, I’m going to lose my mind.   
“Flynn?” Nathan’s voice whispered cautiously, the voice suddenly looming closer as Drake moved his chair nearer. “Oh Jesus, buddy, you scared the hell out of all of us.” One of Nathan’s warm calloused hand slid overtop his limp, unresponsive one. Flynn wanted to move it, he did, but it refused to answer his brain’s impulses. “I’m so sorry, Harry…” Nate whimpered at last, trailing into weak sobs that hitched his voice. “It’s all my fucking fault… I pushed you away without meaning to. I forced myself on you, and you had to get away for just a while and they took you… I should have been there with you. I should have protected you like I said I would. Jesus, we had no idea where you were until the phone call. Sully thought you found a date, I… I knew something was wrong. But your phone was turned off. I left you so many damn messages… I lost count. You just wouldn’t answer. Then that monster called on your phone… Fuck. I never been so scared in my life.”  
It was nice to listen to Nathan Drake’s voice again, even with such a sad, traumatic story to tell. Flynn found himself wondering why he ever thought Nathan would betray him and willingly leave him to the animals he was taken by. It was easy to be disheartened when he had a monster hissing in his ear, repeating all the secret dark fears he kept to himself. The fever was gone, he was not sweating or shivering, but his leg was fuckin’ itchy. He wanted to scratch it. I doubt I could sit up if I tried. I never felt so weak. No, that’s not true. That prison had me weaker. I was sick, then. Dying. I knew it. I feel… numb, now. Why?   
“It took us about 63 days to find you, buddy,” Nathan hiccupped mournfully, caressing and rubbing at his unresponsive hand. Flynn could not feel it. “The whole time, I was losing my damn mind, kept running around the city. Sully caught up with Chloe, she flew with him to the U.S., called some favours with Elena to track your phone before the signal died, where the last call came from. I… I should have went with them, but I couldn’t. Not knowing you were somewhere alone and afraid. We never did receive the DVDs. That made it even worse. I thought they might’ve killed you but I couldn’t stop until I found out for sure. I had to find proof. I didn’t think we’d find you alive…”  
Jesus. No wonder they did not put a rush on it. They took Draza’s threat seriously on killing me after a week. He was looking for a grave, not a living person. That makes it harder. Flynn wanted to try to speak, it had been nearly two whole months since he last spoke to Nathan directly. But his throat was so damn dry. He just listened. Nathan was nearly blubbering, it was confessing everything before he had to inquire.   
Nate sniffled hard, it sounded like he was trying to wipe away the damp mess that his face was becoming but it was most likely unsuccessful as he could not stop crying. “Sully and Chloe and I wanted to … check out their base once we pin-pointed it, she never heard anything and was coming along just… just in case, you know? In case it was bad… we might’ve needed to bury you there. I’ve heard stories of what they do, I didn’t think you would be in one piece. Or alive. That fuckin’ closet they had you in… Jesus. Were you in there the whole time?”  
Oh, good, easy question, a yes or no. That doesn’t need words, or a fuckin’ drop of spit. Flynn winced gently, nodding. It was the few physical nerves and muscles that responded properly. From what he could actually remember, Harry was certain that was relatively true. He recalled the abduction off the street in Rome, the van-ride possibly shortly after, for the duration he had not a clue. But the closet was all he was in during the captivity, he was never moved until rescue. Sorry you had to see that, mate. Honest. I kinda wished I died so you wouldn’t have to deal with this shit. Would have been… more humane. For me and you both.   
Nathan nearly wept morosely, sobbing into his hands when his jerked away from Flynn’s. Harry felt bad about that then, but it was the truth. He was done with lying, done with hiding everything. The evidence was beyond hiding. It was hard to deny how bad it was with proof all around him upon discovery. “Oh my Godddd….” Drake almost bawled, alarmingly loud in such a quiet environment. “How could they?! Why? You didn’t do anything! I did it, it was all me! They nearly killed you once, wasn’t that enough?!”  
Jesus, if we’re in a hospital, he’s going to wake up the whole fuckin’ wing. Nathan, I know you’re upset, but I need you to shut the fuck up, okay? Just shut the fuck up, you’re giving me a goddamn headache.   
His suspicions were confirmed when he heard a door open, followed by a voice he thought he was previously hallucinating. “Jesus, Nate, what hell is the matter with you?” Sullivan snarled softly, shutting the door quickly as if to try and stifle the wailing. “I could hear you down the goddamn hall in the waiting room.”   
“Christ, I’m sorry, Sully,” Nathan whimpered much quieter, but his voice still very deeply distraught. “Flynn’s awake and… I don’t know what to say to him. Fuck, what can I say?”  
Sullivan’s footsteps approached across the linoleum, coming to his bedside where Nathan sat to console. Hell, both his adopted boys might need it. “Hey… Alright, it’s okay. Everything’s okay now, Flynn’s alive and safe now. It’ll take some recovery time, but he’s okay. The doctor said he’s out of the woods.”  
Good to know, Sullivan. Good to know. But what else? Why can’t I move? Why can’t I feel my face? Flynn grunted again, daring himself to try again to vocalize but words were too difficult right now. The first initial ‘fuck’ was entirely by chance and stubborn will. But he was so damn thirsty. He had to try to have them convinced he needed water. His tongue flicked out, licking at his chapped, split lips. Come on. Someone pay attention to me.   
“Jesus, he is awake,” Sully almost gasped, hardly expecting it himself. “What’s the matter, kid? Thirsty?”  
Oh God yes, drier than the fuckin’ Sahara, come on. Hurry it up. Move your ass. Flynn winced with another weak nod. Another grunt would hurt his throat more than it already ached.   
“No real water yet, kid,” Sully almost sighed sadly, but there was some shuffling, a gathering of items he could not see. “Here, this will help. This is so you won’t choke yet. They got you on the saline so you shouldn’t be dehydrated.”  
Something wet poked at his chapped lips, a soft material that caught on the dead, dry skin that covered his petals. Flynn accepted it greedily, realizing it was a water-drenched sponge, a medical supply often seen in ICU or hospices. Suckling on it and allowing the dampness to coat his mouth was not as satisfying as an actual drink of water but it would have to do. Choke? What the fuck do they keep talking about? What is wrong with me? Fuck, last time this happened, I was in a coma. Unless that’s what they did. Fuck, again? Surrendering the sponge, Flynn spat it out before Sully could as much as grab it back.   
“Well, that’s more alive than I’ve seen you yet,” Victor almost chuckled, but the tone of his voice was still strained. “You’ve been here about four days, kid. The surgery took about a day because of your condition, you were in bad shape. They put you in a medically induced coma for three. Your body couldn’t handle being conscious for that. They thought the shock might kill you.”  
The shock? Well, I won’t lie, I was pretty shocked but the whole fuckin’ thing. I didn’t expect to wake up in a bed. Flynn frowned, but he was not sure if it was communicated through his facial features, they still felt numb.   
“Sully, we have to tell him,” Nathan nearly choked, still deeply grappling with his emotions. “We have to… I can’t just let him find out when the bandages come off his eyes.”  
The first real pang of dread since waking set in, eyes shooting open but the layers of gauze forbidding any light to bleed through. What the fuck are they talking about? How bad is it? I’m numb… but my leg was itchy. Why? I can’t feel it anymore, but it was. I knew it was.  
Sullivan uttered a soft sigh, his hand actually grasping Flynn’s where Nathan’s had previously been. He squeezed it reassuringly. “It’s not that bad, kid. They… had to remove your leg from almost at the knee.”  
What? What the fuck did you just say to me? Flynn’s breathing was starting to quicken, hyperventilating nearly. The nearly undetectable bleeping of his heartrate monitor actually made a warning beep of a spike in activity. They took my fuckin’ leg and that’s ‘not that bad’? My right fuckin’ leg?! Jesus! What am I going to do now? I’m good as retired, there is no chance in hell I can climb like that. Fuck, fuck, fuck! FUCK!   
“Hey, relax,” Sullivan warned softly, but his heart was not truly in it. It was hard to scold a man to settle down when he was told his limb was amputated in his sleep. “I’m sorry, kid, really. It was bad. The infection nearly killed you. The leg… it was turning almost black when we found you. There was no chance to save it, you would have died. They fixed your jaw with a metal plate, the scar won’t show, they done it with the plastic surgeon on duty, you’re still going to be your handsome self. Flynn. It’s not so bad. There are really good options for prosthetics these days, it’s not a peg leg anymore or a crutch. They… found you were heavy detoxing off opiates. Nathan mentioned you were against it. We don’t know what happened, Flynn. We found some stuff while we were there, but we can talk about it another time. You’re just coming out of it. You need to rest.”  
I’ve been bloody fuckin’ resting since I got here, you bastard. Don’t you tell me how I should feel about this, it’s my leg! Flynn bit his tongue and chewed absently, it was easier to focus on the sting than to the awful sobbing of Nathan at his side or the apologetic silences from Sullivan. He did not want to explain a damn thing


End file.
